Galaxy Magazine (May 1953)

Galaxy

SCIENCE FICTION

MAY 1953
354

ANC

"ARISTOCRAT OF SCIENCE FICTION"

. . • Thafs what Life Magazine calls GALAXY!

Ifs true of the quality of GALAXY-in format, fiction,
art, articles— but not its attitude.

GALAXY is not edited for the nobility by the nobility
of IQs, though your IQ can't help showing when you read
the magazine. It's meant for everybody, male and fe-
male, young and old, adult enough not to run to the
dictionary whenever a word with more than two syllables
is encountered, who wants to know what futures humanity
may face, what the past may have been like, what may
be found on other worlds . . . and how people will act
under those circumstances.

Could that be why GALAXY Science Fiction is growing
more rapidly than any other science fiction magazine?

Read it and you'll see for yourself! Only 35c a copy at
your favorite newsstand ... or $3.50 a year. (Add $1 per
year on foreign subscriptions to) Write to

GALAXY PUBLISHING CORP.

421 Hudson Street
New York 14, N. Y.

MAY, 1953 Vol. 6, No. 2

Galaxy

SCIENCE FICTION

ALL ORIGINAL STORIES • NO REPRINTS!

CONTENTS

NOVELLA PAGE

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE by James Gunn 4

NOVELET

JUNKYARD by Clifford Simak 124

SHORT STORIES

SPECIALIST by Robert Sheckley 69

A GLEEB FOR EARTH by Charles Shafhauser 94

NOT FIT FOR CHILDREN by Evelyn E. Smith 108

SCIENCE DEPARTMENT

FOR YOUR INFORMATION by Willy Ley 84

FEATURES

EDITOR'S PAGE by H. L Gold 2

GALAXY'S FIVE STAR SHELF by Groff Conklin 119

FORECAST 160

Cover by MEL HUNTER, Showing RESCUE ABOVE THE MOON

ROBERT GUINN, Publisher

H. L. GOLD, Editor WILLY LEY, Science Editor EVELYN PAIGE, Assistant Editor

W. I. VAN DER POEL, Art Director JOAN De MARIO, Production Manager

GALAXY Science Fiction is published monthly by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. Main offices :
421 Hudson Street, New York 14, N. Y. 35c per copy. Subscriptions: (12 copies) $3.50 per
year in the United States, Canada, Mexico, South and Central America and U.S. Possessions.
Elsewhere $4.50. Entered as second-class matter at the Post Office, New York, N. Y. Copyright,
1953, by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. Robert Guinn, president. All rights, including
translation, reserved. All material submitted must be accompanied by self-addressed stamped
envelopes. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited material. All stories printed in
this magazine are fiction, and any similarity between characters and actual persons is coincidental.

Printed in the U.S.A. by the Guinn Co., Inc. Reg. U.S. Pet. Off.

GUEFFEF ON PROGREFF

TN the year 2034, traffic experts
■*• predict, automobiles will out-
number people.

That recent news item was
printed as practically a sure bet,
since it was done by experts deal-
ing with hard facts.

If it had appeared as science
fiction, the likelihood is that it
would not have caused glee
among car manufacturers, oil re-
finers, mechanics, and dismay
among drivers, traffic cops and
highway planners.

There must, after all, be a
great difference between statisti-
cal analysis and fiction exploring
possibilities, which is what sci-
ence fiction does.

Actually, the traffic experts
used exactly the methods of any
writer of science fiction:

They gave top priority to a
coupled trend — population
growth and increased ownership
of cars — to produce an intelli-
gible extrapolation.

If this prediction had been sub-
mitted to me as the basis of a
story, however, here are the ques-
tions I'd want taken care of in a
logical and convincing way:
• How is it that nothing has re-
placed the automobile long before
2034? As a means of transporta-
tion, it's far from satisfactory,
being wasteful of fuel, space,
metals, roads, labor and lives.

• Will fuel and materials hold
out to that extent? It's not possi-
ble unless a cheaper and more
plentiful fuel is used, and metals
are replaced by plastics.

• Since the driving and parking
problems would be even more of
a headache than now, is it rea-
sonable to expect people to buy
more and more cars? Why? How
are these problems solved? For
they must be solved or the ma-
jority would rather not own cars.

• Automobiles will outnumber
people where in 2034?

• To what extent?

• With what results in the lives
of car owners, appearance of city
and countryside, counter-adver-
tising of competitive products to
pull away sales, counter-counter-
advertising to keep up sales of
cars?

And there you have an approx-
imate notion of the way a theme'
should be worked out in science
fiction. Handled routinely, it
would probably become a sad
little tale of a housewife afraid
that her husband will be in an
accident on the grotesquely mur-
derous highways, and he would,
of course; or a wild rebellion of
pedestrians against the tyranny
of the automobile autocracy. A
more thoughtful writer would
have his characters try to get
along in such a congested society.

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Whoever wrote it, though,
would be faced with the need to
guess beyond present knowledge,
as the literature of surmise has
always had to do.

You'd expect an expert to anti-
cipate developments in his field,
but nobody, however trained and
ingenious, can foresee the shook
discoveries that explode so
abruptly, with no prior warning,
on society — steam power, bac-
teriology, radioactivity, internal
combustion, antibiotics — and
with such violence that civiliza-
tion is shot ahead as if out of a
gun.

That applies only to invention,
a tough enough matter. But how
about customs, attitudes, modes
of life? We're writing of civiliza-
tions millenia away, and yet the
gap between the 18th Century
and today is almost unthinkable.
This is how our age might have
looked to a writer of that time:

"By ftage to Bofton, which
great diftance waf covered at an
aftonifhing 15 milef an hour. Our
driver ftated that thif if accom-
plifhed by breeding horfef of
great fpeed and endurance.

"The peftilence in Bofton cauf-
ed by miafmic air haf been erafed
in "a moft ingeniouf manner:
Trained falconf haraff leff preda-
tory birdf into beating their wingf
over the city, thuf difpelling the
noxiouf atmofphere."

We don't use the antique "S"

any longer, but there were other
customs equally inviolable to the
hypothetical 18th Century writer :

• He poured away what we call
tea and ate the leaves with melted
butter.

• He enjoyed chocolate -covered
sausages.

• He paid the postage on the
mail he received.

• His marriage was arranged for
him — an economic matter be-
cause a family was a financial
asset.

• When he didn't pay his debts,
he went to prison.

• If he couldn't afford tutors, his
children remained illiterate.

• He knew the future would be
different, but he expected to be
able to recognize it if he should
somehow see it. He was wrong,
obviously.

"TfcOES good science fiction,
*-* then, pretend to describe the
actual future? No, certainly not. ,
Anyone who thinks so is missing
the point — like an engineer try-
ing to harness the energy of noise-
makers at a New Year's party.

We're having fun with ideas,
making first this one and then
that predominant just to see what
might happen if.

In 2034, I 'predict, traffic ex-
perts will outnumber all cars and
car owners. Bet I can "prove" it,
too!

— H. L. GOLD

GUEFFEF ON PROGREFF

WHEREVER YOU

Even today machinery can be repaired with hairpins and kept
running with a kick— and harder kicks will mean more power!

MATT refused to believe it.
Vacant incredulity para-
lyzed him for a moment
as he stared after the fleeing,
bounding tire. Then, with a sud-
den release, he sprinted after it.
"Stop!" he yelled fu'tilely.
"Stop, damn it!"

With what seemed like sadistic
glee, the tire bounced high in
the air and landed going faster
than ever. Matt pounded down
the hot dusty road for a hundred
yards before he pulled up even
with it. He knocked it over on its

. side. The tire lay there, spinning
and frustrate, like a turtle on its
back. Matt glared at it suspicious-
ly. Sweat trickled down his neck.
A tinkling of little silver bells.
Laughter? Matt looked up quick-
ly, angrily. The woods were thin
along the top of this Ozark ridge.
Descending to the lake, spark-
ling cool and blue far below, they
grew thicker, but the only one
near was the young girl shuffling
through the dust several hundred
yards beyond the crippled car.
And her head was bent down to

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

TN shimmering heat waves and
■*- a slowly settling haze of red
dust, he righted the tire and be-
gan to roll it back toward the
green Ford with one bare metal
wheel drum pointing upward at
a slight angle. The tire rolled
easily, as if it repented its brief
dash for freedom, but it was a
dirty job and Mart's hands and
clothes were soiled red when he
reached the car.

With one hand clutching the
tire, Matt studied the road for
a moment. He could have sworn
that he had stopped on one of the
few level stretches in these hills,
but the tire had straightened up
from the side of the car and
started rolling as if the car were
parked on a steep incline.

Matt reflected bitterly on the
luck that had turned a slow leak
into a flat only twenty-five miles
from the cabin. It couldn't have
happened on the highway, ten
miles back, where he'd have been
able to pull into a service station.
No, it had to wait until he
couldn't get out of this rutted cow
track. The tire's escapade had
been only the most recent of a
series of annoyances and irrita-
tions to which bruised shins and
scraped knuckles were painful
affidavits.

He sighed. After all, he had
wanted isolation. Guy's offer of a
hunting cabin in which to finish
his thesis had seemed like a god-

send at the time, but now Matt
wasn't so certain. If this was a
fair sample, Matt was beginning
to see how much of his time would
be wasted just on the problems
of existence.

Cautiously, Matt rolled the tire
to the rear of the car, laid it care-
fully on its side, and completed
pulling the spare from the trunk.
Warily, he maneuvered the spare
to the left rear wheel, knelt, lifted
it, fitted it over the bolts, and
stepped back. He sighed again,
but this time with relief.

Kling-ng! Klang! Rattle!

Matt hastily looked down. His
foot was at least two inches from
the hub cap, but it was rocking
now, empty. Matt saw the last
nut roll under the car.

Matt's swearing was vigorous,
systematic, and exhaustive. It
concerned itself chiefly with the
perversity of inanimate objects.

There was something about
machines and the things they
made which was basically alien
to the human spirit. They might
disguise themselves for a time as
willing slaves, but eventually, in-
evitably, they turned against their
masters. At the psychological
moment, they rebelled.

Or perhaps it was the differ-
ence in people. For some people,
things always went wrong — their
cakes fell; their lumber split; their
golf balls sliced into the rough.
Others established a mysterious

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

sympathy with their tools.

Luck? Skill? Coordination? Ex-
perience?

It was, he felt, something more
conscious and malignant.

T*J"ATT remembered a near-
■'-*-'• disastrous brush with chem-
istry; he had barely passed
qualitative analysis. For him the
tests had been worse than useless.
Faithfully he had gone through
every step of the endless ritual:
precipitate, filter, dissolve, pre-
cipitate . . . And then he would
take his painfully secured, neatly
written results to — what was his
name? — Wadsworth, and the little
chemistry professor would study
his analysis and look up, frown-
ing.

"Didn't you find any whatyou-
maycallit oxide?" he would ask.

"Whatyoumaycallit oxide?"
Startled. "Oh, there wasn't any
whatyoumaycallit oxide."

And Wadsworth would make a
simple test and, sure enough,
there would be the whatyoumay-
callit oxide.

There was the inexplicably
misshapen gear Matt had made
on the milling machine, the draft-
ing pen that would not draw a
smooth line no matter how much
he sanded the point . . .

It had convinced Matt that his
hands were too clumsy to belong
to an engineer. He had transferred
his ambitions to a field where

tools were less tangible. Now he
wondered.

Kobolds? Accident prones?

Some time he would have to
write it up. It would make a
good paper for the Journal of —

Laughter! This time there was
no possible doubt. It came from
right behind him.

Matt whirled. The girl stood
there, hugging her ribs to keep
the laughter in. She was a young
little thing, not much over five
feet tall, in a shapeless, faded,
blue dress. Her feet were small
and bare and dirty. Her hair, in
long braids, was mouse -colored.
Her pale face was saved from
plainness only by her large, blue
eyes.

Matt flushed. "What the devil
are you laughing at?"

"You!" she got out between
chuckles. "Whyn't you get a
horse?"

"Did that remark just arrive
here?"

He swallowed his irritation,
turned, and got down on his
hands and knees to peer under
the car. One by one he gathered
up the nuts, but the last one,
inevitably, was out of reach.
Sweating, he crawled all the way
under.

TVTHEN he came out, the girl
»* was still there. "What are
you waiting for?" he asked bit-
ingly.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

"Nothin'." But she stood with
her feet planted firmly in the red
dust.

Kibitzers annoyed Matt, but
he couldn't think of anything to
do about it. He twirled the nuts
onto the bolts and tightened them
up, his neck itching. It might
have been the effect of sweat and
dust, but he was not going to
give the girl the satisfaction of
seeing him rub it. That annoyed
him even more. He tapped the
hub cap into place and stood up.

"Why don't you go home?" he
asked sourly. •

"Cain't," she said.

He went to the rear of the car
and released the jack. "Why not?"

"I run away." Her voice was
quietly tragic.

Matt turned to look at her.
Her blue eyes were large and
moist. As he watched, a single
tear gathered and traced a muddy
path down her cheek.

Matt hardened his heart.
"Tough." He picked up the flat
and stuffed it into the trunk and
slammed the lid. The sun was
getting lower, and on this for-
gotten lane to nowhere it might
take him the better part of an
hour to drive the twenty-five
miles.

He slid into the driver's seat
and punched the starter button.
After one last look at the forlorn
little figure in the middle of the
road, he shook his head savagely

and let in the clutch.

"Mister! Hey, mister!"

He slammed on the brakes and
stuck his head out the window.
"Now what do you want?"

"Nothin'," she said mournfully.
"Only you forgot your jack."

Matt jammed the gear shift
into reverse and backed up rapid-
ly. Silently, he got out, picked up
the jack, opened the trunk, tossed
in the jack, slammed the lid. But
as he brushed past her again, he
hesitated. "Where are you going?"

"No place," she said.

"What do you mean 'no place'?
Don't you have any relatives?"
She shook her head. "Friends?"
he asked hopefully. She shook her
head again. "All right, then, go on
home!"

He slid into the car and banged
the door. She was not his concern.
The car jerked into motion. No
doubt she would go home when
she got hungry enough. He shifted
into second, grinding the gears.
Even if she didn't, someone would
take her in. After all, he was no
welfare agency.

He grudgingly slowed, then
angrily backed up and skidded
to a stop beside the girl.

"Get in," he said.

rpRYING to keep the car out
-■- of the ruts was trouble enough,
but the girl jumped up and down
on the seat beside him, squealing
happily.

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"Careful of those notes," he
said, indicating the bulging ma-
nila folders on the seat between
them. "There's over a year's work
in those."

Her eyes were wide as she
watched him place the folders in
the back seat on top of the port-
able typewriter that rested be-
tween the twenty-pound sack of
flour and the case of eggs.

"A year's work?" she echoed
wonderingly.

"Notes. For the thesis I'm go-
ing to write."

"You write stories?"

"A research paper I have to do
to get my degree." He glanced
at her blank expression and then
looked back at the road. "It's
called," he said with a nasty
superior smile, " 'The Psycho-
dynamics of Witchcraft, with Spe-
cial Reference to the Salem Trials
of 1692.' "

"Oh," she said wisely.
"Witches." As if she knew all
about witches.

Matt felt unreasonably an-
noyed. "All right, where do you
live?"

She stopped bouncing and got
very quiet. "I cain't go home."

"Why not?" he demanded.
"And don't tell me 'I run away,' "
he imitated nasally.

"Paw'd beat me again. He'd
purty nigh skin me alive, I guess."

"You mean he hits you?"

"He don't use his fists — not

often. He uses his belt mostly.
Look." She pulled up the hem of
her dress and the leg of a pair of
baggy drawers that appeared to
be made from some kind of sack-
ing.

Matt looked quickly and
glanced away. Across the back of
one thigh was an ugly dark bruise.
But the leg seemed unusually well
rounded for a girl so small and
young. Matt frowned thought-
fully. Did girls in the hills mature
that early?

He cleared his throat. "Why
does he do that?"

"He's just mean."

"He must have some reason."

"Well," she said thoughtfully,
"he beats me when he's drunk
'cause he's drunk, and he beats
me when he's sober 'cause he ain't
drunk. That covers it mostly."

"But what does he say?"

She glanced at him shyly. "Oh,
I cain't repeat it."

"I mean what does he want you
to do?"

"Oh, that!" She brooded over it.
"He thinks I ought to get mar-
ried. He wants me to catch some
strong young feller who'll do the
work when he moves in with us.
A gal don't bring in no money,
he says, leastwise not a good one.
That kind only eats and wants
things."

"Married?" Matt said. "But
you're much too young to get
married."

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

OHE glanced at him out of the
^ corner of her eye. "I'm six-
teen," she said. "Most girls my
age got a couple of young 'uns.
One, anyways."

Matt looked at her sharply.
Sixteen? It seemed impossible.
The dress was shapeless enough
to hide almost anything — but six-
teen! Then he remembered the
thigh.

She frowned. "Get married, get
married! You'd think I didn't
want to get married. 'Tain't my
fault no feller wants me."

"I can't understand that," Matt
said sarcastically.

She smiled at him. "You're
nice."

She looked almost pretty when
she smiled. For a hill girl.

"What seems to be the
trouble?" Matt asked hurriedly.

"Partly Paw," she said. "No
one'd want to have him around.
But mostly I guess I'm just un-
lucky." She sighed. "One feller I
went with purty near a year. He
busted his leg. Another nigh
drownded when he fell in the lake.
Don't seem right they should
blame me, even if we did have
words."

"Blame you?"

She nodded vigorously. "Them
as don't hate me say it's courtin'
disaster 'stead of a gal. The others
weren't so nice. Fellers stopped
comin'. One of 'em said he'd
rather marry up with a cata-

mount. You married, Mister —
Mister—?"

"Matthew Wright. No, I'm not
married."

She nodded thoughtfully.
"Wright. Abigail Wright. That's
purty."

"Abigail Wright?"

"Did I say that? Now, ain't
that funny? My name's Jenkins."

Matt gulped. "You're going
home," he said with unshakable
conviction. "You can tell me how
to get there or you can climb
out of the car right now."

"But Paw—"

"Where the devil did you think
I was taking you?"

"Wherever you're going," she
said, wide-eyed.

"For God's sake, you can't go
with me! It wouldn't be decent."

"Why not?" she asked inno-
cently.

In silence, Matt began to apply
the brakes.

"All right," she sighed. She
wore an expression the early
Christians must have worn be-
fore they were marched into the
arena. "Turn right at the next
cross road."

/CHICKENS scattered in front
^ of the wheels, fluttering and
squawking; pigs squealed in a pen
beside the house. Matt stopped
in front of the shanty, appalled.
If the two rooms and sagging
porch had ever known paint, they

10

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

had enjoyed only a nodding ac-
quaintance, and that a generation
before.

A large brooding figure sat on
the porch, rocking slowly in a
rickety chair. He was dark, with
a full black beard and a tall head
of hair.

"That's Paw," Abigail whis-
pered in fright.

Matt waited uneasily, but the
broad figure of her father kept on
rocking as if strangers brought
back his daughter every day.
Maybe they do, Matt thought
with irritation.

"Well," he said nervously, "here
you are."

"I cain't get out," Abigail said.
"Not till I find out if Paw's goih'
to whale me. Go talk to him. See
if he's mad at me."

"Not me," Matt stated with
certainty, glancing again at the
big, black figure rocking slowly,
ominously silent. "I've done my
duty in bringing you home.
Good-by. I won't say it's been a
pleasure knowing you."

"You're nice and mighty hand- '
some. I'd hate to tell Paw you'd
taken advantage of me. He's a
terror when he's riled."

For one horrified moment, Matt
stared at Abigail. Then, as she
opened her mouth, he opened the
door and stepped out. Slowly he
walked up to the porch and put
one foot on its uneven edge.

"Uh," he said. "I met your

daughter on the road."

Jenkins kept on rocking.

"She'd run away," Matt went
on.

Jenkins was silent. Matt studied
the portion of Jenkins's face that
wasn't covered with hair. There
wasn't much of it, but what there
was Matt didn't like.

"I brought her back," Matt
finished desperately.

Jenkins rocked and said noth-
ing. Matt spun around and
walked quickly back to the car.
He went around to the window
where Abigail sat. He reached
through the window, opened the
glove compartment, and drew out
a full pint bottle.

"Remind me," he said, "never
to see you again." He marched
back to the porch. "Care for a
little drink?"

/~VNE large hand reached but,
^-' smothered the pint, and »
brought it close to faded blue
overalls. The cap was twisted off
by the other hand. The bottle
was tilted toward the unpainted
porch ceiling as soon as the neck
disappeared into the matted
whiskers. The bottle gurgled.
When it was lowered, it was only
half full.

"Weak," the beard said. But
the hand that held the bottle held
it tight.

"I brought your daughter
back," Matt said, starting again.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

11

"Why?" he asked.

"She had no place to go. I
mean — after all, this is her home."

"She run away," the beard said.
Matt found the experience ex-
tremely unnerving.

"Look, Mr. Jenkins, I realize
that teen-age daughters can be
a nuisance, and after meeting
your daughter I think I can un-
derstand how you feel. Still in
all, she is your daughter."

"Got my doubts."

Matt gulped and tried once
more. "A happy family demands
a lot of compromise, give-and-
take on both sides. Your daughter
may have given you good cause
to lose your temper, but beating
a child is never sound psychology.
Now if you — "

"Beat her?" Jenkins rose from
his chair. It was an awesome
thing, like Neptune rising out of
the sea in all his majesty, gigantic,
l bearded, and powerful. Even sub-
tracting the height of the porch,
Jenkins loomed several inches
over Matt's near six feet. "Never
laid a hand to her. Dassn't."

My God, thought Matt, the
man is trembling!

"Come in here," said Jenkins.
He waved the pint toward the
open door, a dark rectangle.

Uneasily, Matt walked into the
room. Under his feet, things
gritted and cracked.

Jenkins lit a kerosene lamp and
turned it up. The room was a

shambles. Broken dishes littered
the floor. Wooden chairs were
smashed and splintered. In the
center of the room, a table on its
back waved three rough legs help-
lessly in the air; the fourth leg
sagged pitifully from its socket.

"She did this?" Matt asked
weakly.

"This ain't nothin'." Jenkins'
voice quavered; it was a terrible
sound to come from that massive
frame. "You should see the other
room."

"But how? I mean why?"

"I ain't a-sayin' Ab done it,"
Jenkins said, shaking his head.
His beard wobbled near Matt's
nose. "But when she gets on-
happy, things happen. And she
was powerful onhappy when that
Duncan boy tol' her he wan't
comin' back. Them chairs come
up from the floor and slam down.
That table went dancin' round
the room till it fell to pieces.
Then dishes come a-flyin' through
the air. Look!"

His voice was full of self-pity
as he turned his head around and
parted his long, matted hair. On
the back of his head was a large,
red swelling. "I hate to think
what happened to that Duncan
boy."

TTE shook his head sorrowfully.
-*--*• "Now, mister, I guess I got
ever' right to lay my hand to that
gal. Ain't I?" he demanded fierce-

12

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

ly, but his voice broke.

Matt stared at him blankly.

"But whop her? Me? I sooner
stick my hand in a nest of
rattlers."

"You mean to say that those
things happened all by them-
selves?"

"That's what I said. I guess it
kinder sticks in your craw.
Wouldn't have believe it myself,
even seein' it and feelin' it — " he
rubbed the back of his head — "if
it ain't happen afore. Funny
things happen around Ab, ever
since she started fillin' out, five-
six year ago."

"But she's only sixteen," Matt
objected.

"Sixteen?" Jenkins glanced
warily around the room and out
the door toward the car. He low-
ered his voice to a harsh whisper..
"Don't let on I tol' you, but Ab
alius was a fibber. She's past
eighteen!"

From a shelf, a single unbroken
dish crashed to the floor at Jen-
kins' feet. He jumped and began
to shake.

"See?" he whispered plain-
tively.

"It fell," Matt said.

"She's witched." Jenkins took
a feverish swallow from the bottle.
"Maybe I ain't been a good Paw
to her. Ever since her Maw died,
she run wild and got all kinda
queer notions. 'Taint alius been
bad. For years I ain't had to go

fer water. That barrel by the
porch is alius filled. But ever
since she got to the courtin' age
and started bein' disappointed in
fellers round about, she been
mighty hard to live with. No
one'll come nigh the place. And
things keep a-movin' and a-jump-
in' around till a man cain't trust
his own chair to set still under
him. It gets you, son. A man kin
only stand so much!"

To Mart's dismay, Jenkins's
eyes began to fill with large tears.
"Got no friend no more to offer
me a drink now and again,
sociable-like, or help me with the
chores, times I got the misery in
my back. I ain't a well man, son.
Times it's more'n I kin do to get
outa bed in the mornin'.

"Look, son," Jenkins said,
turning to Matt pleadingly. "Yore
a city feller. Yore right nice-
lookin' with manners and edyaca-
tion. I reckon Ab likes you.
Whyn't you take her with you?"
Matt started retreating toward
the door. "She's right purty when
she fixes up and she kin cook
right smart. You'd think a skillet
was part of her hand, the way she
kin handle one, and you don't
even have to marry up with her."

"*/|"ATT backed away, white-
-L" faced and incredulous. "You
must be mad. You can't give a
girl away like that." He turned
to make a dash for the door.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

13

A heavy hand fell on Mart's
shoulder and spun him around.
"Son," Jenkins said, his voice
heavy with menace, "any man
that's alone with a gal more'n
twenty minutes, it's thought
proper they should get married
up quick. Since yore a stranger,
I ain't holdin' you to it. But when
Ab left me, she stopped bein' my
daughter. Nobody asked you to
bring her back. That gal," he said
woefully, "eats more'n I do."

Matt reached into his hip
pocket. He pulled out his billfold
and extracted a five dollar bill.

"Here," he said, extending it
toward Jenkins, "maybe this will
make life a little more pleasant."

Jenkins looked at the money
wistfully, started to reach for it,
and jerked his hand away.

"I cain't do it," he moaned. "It
ain't worth it. You brought her
back. You kin take her away."

Matt glanced out the doorway
toward the car and shuddered. He
added another five to the one in
his hand.

Jenkins sweated. His hand
crept out. Finally, desperately, he
crumpled the bills into his palm.
"All right," he said hoarsely.

"Them's ten mighty power-
ful reasons."

Matt ran to the car as if he had
escaped from bedlam. He opened
the door and slipped in. "Get
out," he said sharply. "You're
home."

"But Paw—"

"From now on, he'll be a dot-
ing father." Matt reached across
and opened the door for her.
"Good-by."

Slowly Abigail got out. She
rounded the car and walked up
to the porch, dragging her feet.
But when she reached the porch,
she straightened up. Jenkins, who
was standing in the doorway,
shrank back from his five-foot-
tall daughter as she approached.

"Dirty, nasty old man," Abigail
hissed.

Jenkins flinched. After she had
passed, he raised the bottle hast-
ily to his beard. His hand must
have slipped. By some unac-
countable mischance, the bottle
kept rising in the air, mouth
downward. The bourbon gushed
over his head.

Pathetically, looking more like
Neptune than ever, Jenkins
peered toward the car and shook
his head.

Feverishly, Matt turned the car
around and jumped the car out of
the yard. It had undoubtedly
been an optical illusion. A bottle
does not hang in the air without
support.

GUY'S cabin should not have
been so difficult to find. Al-
though the night was dark, the
directions were explicit. But for
two hours Matt bounced back
and forth along the dirt roads of

14

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

the hills. He got tired and hungry.

For the fourth time, he passed
the cabin which fitted the direc-
tions in every way but one — it
was occupied. Lights streamed
from the windows into the night.
Matt turned into the steep drive-
way. He could, at least, ask di-
rections.

As he walked toward the door,
the odor of frying ham drifted
from the house to tantalize him.
Matt knocked, his mouth water-
ing. Perhaps he could even get
an invitation to supper.

The door swung open. "Come
on in. What kept you?"

Matt blinked. "Oh, no!" he
cried. For a frantic moment, it
was like the old vaudeville rou-
tine of the drunk in the hotel who
keeps staggering back to knock
on the same door. Each time he
is more indignantly ejected until
finally he complains, "My God,
are you in all the rooms?"

"What are you doing here?"
Matt asked faintly. "How did
you — How could you — ?"

Abigail pulled him into the
cabin. It looked bright and cheer-
ful and clean. The floor was new-
ly swept; a broom leaned in the
corner. The two lower bunks on
opposite walls were neatly made
up. Two places were laid at the
table. Food was cooking on the
wood stove.

"Paw changed his mind," she
said.

"But he couldn't! I gave

him—"

"Oh, that." She reached into a
pocket of her dress. "Here."

She handed him the two crum-
pled five dollar bills and a hand-
ful of silver and copper that Matt
dazedly added up to one dollar
and thirty-seven cents.

"Paw said he'd have sent more,
but it was all he had. So he
threw in some vittles."

He sat down in a chair heavily.
"But you couldn't — I didn't know
where the place was myself, ex-
actly. I didn't tell you—"

"I always been good at finding
things," she said. "Places, things
that are lost. Like a cat, I guess."

"But— but— " Matt spluttered,
"how did you get here?"

"I rode," she said. Instinctively,
Mart's eyes switched to the broom
in the corner. "Paw loaned me
the mule. I let her go. She'll get
home all right."

"But you can't stay here. It's
impossible!"

"Now, Mr. Wright," Abigail
said soothingly. "My Maw used
to say a man should never make
a decision on a empty stomach.
You just sit there and relax. Sup-
per's all ready. You must be nigh
starved."

"There's no decision to be
made!" Matt said, but he watched
while she put things on the table
— thick slices of fried ham with
cream gravy, corn on the cob,

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

15

fluffy biscuits, butter, homemade
jelly, strong black coffee that was
steaming and fragrant. Abigail's
cheeks were flushed from the
stove, and her face was peaceful.
She looked almost pretty.

"I can't eat a bite," Matt told
her.

"Nonsense." Abigail filled his
plate.

|^LUMLY, Matt sliced off a
^-^ bite of ham and put it in his
mouth. It was so tender, it almost
melted. Before long he was eating
as fast as he could shovel the
food into his mouth. The food
was delicious; everything was
cooked just as he liked it. He had
never been able to tell anyone
how to fix it that way. But that
was the way it was.

He pushed himself back from
the table, teetering against the
wall on the back legs of his chair,
lit a cigarette and watched Abi-
gail pour him a third cup of
coffee. He was swept by a wave
of contentment.

"If I'd had time I'd a made a
peach pie. I make real good peach
pie," Abigail said.

Matt nodded lazily. There
would be compensations in hav-
ing someone around to —

"No!" he said violently, thump-
ing down on the two front legs
of his chair. "It won't work. You
can't stay here. What would peo-
ple say?"

"Who'd care? — Paw don't.
Anyways, I could say we was
married."

"No!" Matt said hoarsely.
"Please don't do that!"

"Please, Mr. Wright," she
pleaded, "let me cook and clean
for you. I wouldn't be no trouble,
Mr. Wright, honest I wouldn't."

"Look, Abbie!" He took her
hand. It was soft and feminine.
She stood beside his chair obe-
diently, her eyes cast down.
"You're a nice girl, and I like
you. You can cook better than
anyone I've ever known, and
you'll make some man a good
wife. But I think too much of
you to let you ruin your name by
staying here along with me.
You'll have to go back to your
father."

The life seemed to flow out of
her. "All right," she said, so low
that it was difficult to hear her.

Dazed at his sudden success,
Matt got up and walked toward
the door. She followed him, and
Matt could almost feel the tears
welling in her eyes.

Matt opened the car door for
her and helped her in. He circled
the front of the car and slid into
the driver's seat. Abbie huddled
against the far door, small and
forlorn.

Since Matt's speech, she hadn't
said a word. Suddenly, Matt felt
very sorry for her and ashamed,
as if he had hit a child. The poor

16

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

little thing! he thought. Then he
caught himself. He shook his
head. For a poor little thing, she
had certainly managed to brow-
beat her father.

He thumbed the starter button,
and the motor growled, but it
didn't catch. Matt let it whine
to a stop and pressed again. The
motor moaned futilely. Matt
checked the ignition. It was on.
Again and again he pushed in
the button. The moans got weak-
er. He tried to roll the car —
but the brakes locked.

¥¥E glanced suspiciously at Abi-
■*■■■• gail. Bur that's absurd, he
thought. Since he had met Abbie,
his thoughts had taken a definite
paranoid tinge. It was foolish to
blame everything that went wrong
on the girl.

But the car wouldn't move. He
gave up.

"All right," he sighed. "I can't
put you out this far from -home.
You can sleep here tonight."

Silently, she followed him into
the cabin. She helped him tack
blankets to the upper bunks on
each side of the cabin. They made
an effective curtain around the
lower beds. As they worked, Matt
discovered that he was unusually
sensitive to her nearness. There
was a sweet, womanly smell to
her, and when she brushed agaii)st
him the spot that was touched
came to life — tingling awareness.

When they finished, Abbie
reached down and grasped the
hem of her dress to pull it off
over her head.

"No, no," Matt said hurriedly.
"Don't you have any modesty?
Why do you think we tacked up
those blankets?" He gestured to
the bunk on the left hand wall.
"Dress and undress in there."

She let the hem of her dress
fall, nodded meekly, and climbed
into the bunk.

Matt stared after her for a mo-
ment and released his breath. He
turned and climbed into his own
bunk, undressed, and slipped
under the blanket. Then he re-
membered that he had forgotten
to turn out the lamps.

He rose on one elbow and heard
a soft padding on the floor. The
lamps went out, one by one, and
the padding faded to the other
side of the room. Rustling sounds.
Darkness and silence.

"Good night, Mr. Wright." It
was a little child's voice in the
night.

"Good night, Abbie," he said
softly. And then after a moment,
firmly, "But don't »forget — back
you go first thing in the morn-
ing."

Before the silence wove a pat-
tern of sleep, Matt heard a little
sound from the other bunk. He
couldn't quite identify it.

A sob? A snore? Or a muffled
titter?

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

17

^T^HE odor of frying bacon and
■*■■ boiling coffee crept into Mart's
nightmare of a terrifying pursuit
by an implacable and invisible
enemy. Matt opened his eyes. The
bunk was bright with diffused
sunlight; the dream faded. Matt
sniffed hungrily and pushed aside
the blanket to look out.

All the supplies from the car
had been unloaded and neatly
stowed away. On a little corner
table by the window were his
typewriter and precious manila
folders, and a stack of blank
white paper.

Matt dressed hurriedly in his
cramped quarters. When he
emerged from his cocoon, Abbie
was humming happily as she set
breakfast on the table. She wore
a different dress this morning — a
brown calico that did horrible
things for her hair and coloring,
but fitted better than the blue
gingham. The dress revealed a
slim but unsuspectedly mature
figure.

How would she look, he won-
dered briefly, in good clothes and
nylons, shoes, and make-up?

The thought crumbled before
a fresh onslaught to his senses
of the odor and sight of breakfast.
The eggs were cooked just right,
sunny side up, the white firm but
not hard. It was strange how
Abbie anticipated his preferences.
At first he thought that she had
overestimated his appetite, but

he stowed away three eggs while
Abbie ate two, heartily.

He pushed back his plate with
a sigh. "Well," he began. She got
very quiet and stared at the floor.
His heart melted. He felt too con-
tented ; a few hours more wouldn't
make any difference. Tonight
would be time enough for her to
go back. "Well," he repeated, "I
guess I'd better get to work."

Abbie sprang to clear the table.
Matt walked to the corner where
the typewriter was waiting. He
sat down in the chair and rolled
in a sheet of paper. The table was
well arranged for light; it was
the right height. Everything con-
sidered, it was just about perfect
for working.

He stared at the blank sheet
of paper. He leafed through his
notes. He resisted an impulse to
get up and walk around. He
rested his fingers lightly on the
keys and after a moment lifted
them, crossed one leg over the
other knee, put his right elbow
on the raised leg, and began to
finger his chin.

There was only one thing
wrong: he didn't feel like work-
ing.

Finally he typed in the middle
of the page:

THE PSYCHODYNAMICS OF
WITCHCRAFT

With Special Reference to the

Salem Trials of 1692
He double -spaced and stopped.

18

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

FT wasn't that Abbie was noisy;
*■ she was too quiet, with a kind
of purposeful restraint that is
worse than chaos. With one ear
Matt listened to the sounds of
dishwashing and stacking. And
then silence.

Matt stood it as long as he
could and turned. Abbie was
seated at the table. She was sew-
ing up a hole in the pocket of
his other pair of pants. He could
almost see the aura of bliss that
surrounded her.

Like a child, Matt thought,
playing at domesticity. But there
was something mature about it,
too; a mature and basic fulfill-
ment. // we could all be happy
with so little. Ifs a pity, with so
small an ambition, to have the
real thing so elusive.

As if she felt him looking at
her, Abbie glanced around and
beamed. Matt turned back to his
typewriter. It still wouldn't come.

Witchcraft, he began hesitant-
ly, is the attempt of the primitive
mind to bring order out of chaos.
It is significant, therefore, that
belief in witchcraft fades as an
understanding of the natural
workings of the physical uni-
verse grows more prevalent.

He let his hands drop. It was
all wrong, like an image seen in
a distorted mirror. He swung
around: "Who wrecked your
father's house?"

"Libby," she said.

"Libby?" Matt echoed, "Who's
Libby?"

"The other me," Abbie said
calmly. "Mostly I keep her bot-
tled up inside, but when I feel'
sad and unhappy I can't keep her
in. Then she gets loose and just
goes wild. I can't control her.'"

Good God! Matt thought,
Schizophrenia! "Where did you
get an idea like that?" he asked
cautiously.

"When I was born," Abbie said,
"I had a twin sister, only she
died real quick. Maw said I was
stronger and just crowded the
life right out of her. When I was
bad, Maw used to shake her
head and say Libby'd never have
been mean or cross or naughty. So
when something happened, I
started saying Libby done it. It
didn't stop a licking, but it made
me feel better."

What a thing to tell a child!
Matt thought.

"Purty soon I got to believing
it, that Libby done the bad things
that I got licked for, that Libby
was part of me that I had to push
deep down so she couldn't get
out and get me in trouble. After
I" — she blushed — "got older and
funny things started happening,
Libby come in real handy."

"Can you see her?" Matt ven-
tured.

"Course not," Abbie said re-
proachfully. "She ain't real."

"Isn't."

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

19

"Isn't real, Abbie said. "Things
happen when I feel bad. I can't
do anything about it. But you got
to explain it somehow ... I use
Libby."

Matt sighed. Abbie wasn't so
crazy — or stupid either. "You
can't contrdl it — ever?"

"Well, maybe a little. Like
when I felt kind of mean about
that liquor you gave Paw, and I
thought how nice it would be if
Paw had something wet on the
outside for a change."

"How about a tire and a hub
cap full of nuts?"

She laughed. Again that tink-
ling of little silver bells. "You
did look funny."

Matt frowned. But slowly his
expression cleared and he began
to chuckle. "I guess I did."

TTE swung back to the type-
-*--*- writer before he realized that
he was accepting the events of
the last eighteen hours as physical
facts and Abbie's explanation as
theoretically possible. Did he
actually believe that Abbie could
— how was he going to express
it? — move objects with some mys-
terious, intangible force? By wish-
ing? Of course he didn't, He
stared at the typewriter. Or did
he?

He called up a picture of a pint
bottle hanging unsupported in
mid air, emptying its contents
over Jenkins's head. He remem-

bered a dish that jumped from a
shelf to shatter on the floor. He
thought of a hub cap that dumped
its contents into the dirt when
his foot was two inches away.
And he saw a tire straighten up
and begin to roll down a level
road.

You can't just dismiss things,
he thought. In any comprehen-
sive scheme of the universe, you
must include all valid phenom-
ena. If the accepted scheme of
things cannot find a place for it,
then the scheme must change.

Matt shivered. It was a dis-
turbing thought.

The primitive mind believed
that inanimate objects had spirits
that must be propitiated. With a
little sophistication came mythol-
ogy and its personification —
nymphs and sprites, Poseidon and
Aeolus — and folklore, with its
kobolds and poltergeists.

Sir James Frazer said some-
thing about the relationship be-
tween science and magic. Man, he
said, associates ideas by similar-
ity and by contiguity in space or
time. If the association is legiti-
mate, it is science; if illegitimate,
it is magic, science's bastard sis-
ter.

But if the associations of magic
are legitimate, then those of sci-
ence must be illegitimate, and the
two reverse their roles and the
modern world is standing on its
head.

20

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Matt felt a little dizzy.

Suppose the primitive mind is
wiser than we are. Suppose you
can insure good luck by the prop-
er ritual or kill your enemy by
sticking a pin in a wax doll. Sup-
pose you can prove it.

You had to have some kind of
explanation of unnatural events,
the square pegs that do not fit
into any of science's round holes.
Even Abbie recognized that.

Matt knew what the scientific
explanation would be: illusion,
delusion, hypnosis, anything
which demanded the least possi-
ble rearrangement of accepted
theory, anything which, in effect,
denied the existence of the phe-
nomenon.

"OUT how could you really ex-
*■* plain it? How could you ex-
plain Abbie? Did you,, believe in
the spirits of inanimate objects,
directed by Abbie when she was
in the proper mood? Did you be
lieve in poltergeists which Abbie
ordered about? Did you believe
in Libby, the intangible projecta-
ble, manipulative external soul?

You had to explain Abbie or
your cosmology was worthless.

That man at Duke — Rhine,
the parapsychologist — he had a
word for it. Telekinesis. That was
one attempt to incorporate psy-
chic phenomena into the body
of science, or, perhaps, to alter
the theoretical universe in order

to fit those phenomena into it.

But it didn't explain anything.

Then Matt thought of electric-
ity. You don't have to explain
something in order to use it. You
don't have to understand it in
order to control it. It helps, but
it isn't essential. Understanding
is a psychological necessity, not
a physical one.

Matt stared at the words he
had written. The seventeenth
century. Why was he wasting his
time? Here was something im-
mediate. He had stumbled on
something that would set the
whole world on its ear, or perhaps
stand it on its feet again. It would
not molder away, as the thesis
would in a university library.

Matt turned around. Abbie was
sitting at the table, her mending
finished, staring placidly out the
open doorway. Matt stood up and
walked toward her. She turned
her head to look at him, smiling
slowly. Matt turned his head,
searching the room.

"Kin I get you something?"
Abbie asked anxiously.

Matt looked down at her.
"Here!" he said. He plucked the
needle from the spool of darning
thread. He forced it lightly into
the rough top of the table so that
the needle stood upright. "Now,"
he said defiantly, "make it move."

Abbie stared at him. "Why?"

"I want to see you do it," Matt
said firmly. "Isn't that enough?"

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

21

"But I don't want to," Abbie
objected. "I never wanted to do
it. It just happened."

"Try!"

"No, Mr. Wright," Abbie said
firmly. "It never brung me noth-
ing but misery. It scared away
all my fellers and all Paw's
friends. Folks don't like people
who can do things like that. I
don't ever want it to happen
again."

"If you want to stay here,"
Matt said flatly, "you'll do as I
say."

"Please, Mr. Wright," she beg-
ged. "Don't make me do it. It'll
spoil everything. It's bad enough
when you can't help it, but it's
worse when you do it a -purpose
— something terrible will come
of it."

Matt glowered at her. Her
pleading eyes dropped. She bit
her lip. She stared at the needle.
Her smooth, young forehead
tightened.

Nothing happened. The needle
remained upright.

Abbie took a deep breath. "I
cain't, Mr. Wright," she wailed.
"I just cain't do it."

"Why not?" Matt demanded
fiercely. "Why can't you do it?"

"I don't know," Abbie said.
Automatically her hands began
to smooth the pants laid across
her lap. She looked down and
blushed. "I guess it's 'cause I'm
happy."

A FTER a morning of experi-
■**• mentation, Matt's only half-
conscious need was still
unsatisfied. He had offered Abbie
an innumerable assortment of ob-
jects: a spool of thread, a foun-
tain pen cap, a dime, a typewriter
eraser, a three-by-five note card,
a piece of folded paper, a bottle
. . . The last Matt considered a
stroke of genius. But tip it as he
would, the bottle, like all the rest
of the objects, remained stolidly
unaffected.

He even got the spare tire out
of the trunk and leaned it against
the side of the car. Fifteen min-
utes later, it was still leaning
there.

Finally, frowning darkly, Matt
took a cup from the shelf and
put it down on the table. "Here,"
he said. "You're so good at
smashing dishes, smash this."

Abbie stared at the cup hope-
lessly. Her face seemed old and
haggard. After a moment, her
body seemed to collapse all at
once. "I cain't," she moaned. "I
cain't."

"Can't!" Matt shouted. "Can't!
Are you so stupid you can't say
that? Not 'cain't' — can't!"

Her large blue eyes lifted to
Matt's in mute appeal. They be-
gan to fill with tears. "I can't,"
she said. A sob broke from her
throat. She put her head down
on her arms. Her thin shoulders
began to quiver.

22

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Moodily, Matt stared at her
back. Was everything that he had
seen merely an illusion? Or did
this phenomenon only evidence
itself under very rigid conditions?
Did she have to be unhappy?

It was not without a certain
logic. Neurotic children had play-
ed a large part in the history of
witchcraft. In one of the English
trials, children had reportedly
fallen into fits and vomited crook-
ed pins. They could not pro-
nounce such holy names as
"Lord," "Jesus," or "Christ," but
they could readily speak the
names "Satan" or "Devil." Be-
tween the middle of the fifteenth
century and the middle of the
sixteenth, 100,000 persons had
been put to death for witchcraft.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

23

How many had come to the rack,
the stake, or the drowning pool,
through the accusations of chil-
dren? A child saw a hag at her
door. The next moment she saw
a hare run by and the woman
had disappeared. On no more
convincing evidence than that,
the woman was accused of turn-
ing herself into a hare by witch-
craft.

Why had the children done it?
Suggestibility? A desire for at-
tention?

Whatever the reason, it was
tainted with abnormality.

In the field of psychic phenom-
ena as well, the investigations of
the Society of Psychical Research
were full of instances in which
neurotic children or neurotic
young women played a distinct
if inexplicable role.

Did Abbie have to be unhappy?
Matt's lips twisted. // it was true,
it was hard on Abbie.

"Get your things together,"
Matt said harshly. "You're going
home to your father."

Abbie stiffened and looked up,
her face tear-streaked but her
eyes blazing. "I ain't."

"You are not," Matt corrected
sharply.

"I are not," Abbie said fiercely.
"I are not. I are not."

Suddenly the cup was sailing
toward Matt's head. Instinctively,
he put out his hand. The cup hit
it and stuck. Matt looked at it

dazedly and back at Abbie. Her
hands were still in her lap.

YOU did it!" Matt shouted.
"It's true."

Abbie looked pleased. "Do I
have to go back to Paw?"

Matt thought a moment. "No,"
he said. "Not if you'll help me."

Abbie's lips tightened. "Ain't —
isn't once enough, Mr. Wright?
You know I can do it. Won't you
leave it alone now? It's unlucky.
Something awful will happen. I
got a feeling." She looked up at
his implacable face. "But I'll do
it, if you want."

"It's important," Matt said
gently. "Now. What did you feel
just before the cup moved toward
me?"

"Mad."

"No, no. I mean what did yor
feel physically or mentally not
emotionally."

Abbie's eyebrows were thick.
When she knit them, they made
a straight line across the top of
her nose. "Gosh, Mr. Wright, I
cain't — " She looked at him
quickly. "I can't find the words
to tell about it. It's like I wanted
to pick up the nearest thing and
throw it at you, and then it was
like I had thrown it. Kind of a
push from all of me, instead of
just my hand."

Matt frowned while he put the
cup back on the table. "Try to
feel exactly like that again."

24

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Obediently, Abbie concentrat-
ed. Her face worked. Finally she
sagged back in her chair. "I cai —
I can't. I just don't feel like it."

"You're going back to your
father!" Matt snapped.

The cup rocked.

"There!" Matt said quickly.
"Try it again before you forget!"

The cup spun around.

"Again!"

The cup rose an inch from the
table and settled down.

Abbie sighed. "It was just a
trick, wasn't it, Mr. Wright? You
aren't really going to send me
back?"

"No, but maybe you'll wish I
had before we're through. You'll
have to work and practice until
you have full conscious control
of whatever it is."

"All right," Abbie said sub-
missively. "But it's terrible tiring
work when you don't feel like it."

"Terribly," Matt corrected.

"Terribly," Abbie repeated.

"Now," Matt said. "Try it
again."

A BBIE practiced until noon.
*"■ Her maximum effort was to
raise the cup a foot from the
table, but that she could do very
well.

"Where does the energy come
from?" Matt asked.

"I don't know," Abbie sighed,
"but I'm powerful hungry."

"Very," Matt said.

"Very hungry," Abbie repeated.
She got up and walked to the
cupboard. "How many ham sand-
wiches do you want — two?"

Matt nodded absently. When
the sandwiches came, he ate in
thoughtful silence.

It was true, then. Abbie could
do it, but she had to be unhappy
to have full power and control.

"Try it on the mustard," he
said.

"I'm so full," Abbie explained
contentedly. She had eaten three
sandwiches.

Matt stared at the yellow jar,
unseeing. It was quite a problem.
There was no sure way of deter-
mining just what Abbie's powers
were, without getting some equip-
ment. He had to find out just
what it was she did, and what
effect it had on her, before he
could expect to fully evaluate any
data.

But that wasn't the hardest
part of it. He should be able to
pick up the things he needed in
Springfield. It was what he was
going to have to do to Abbie that
troubled him.

All he had been able to find out
about Abbie's phenomena was
that they seemed to occur with
the greatest frequency and
strength when the girl was un-
happy.

Matt stared out through the
cabin window.

Gradually, he was forming a -

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

25

plan to make Abbie unhappier
than she had ever been.

A LL afternoon Matt was very
**• kind to Abbie. He helped her
dry the dishes, although she pro-
tested vigorously. He talked to
her about his life and about his
studies at the University of Kan-
sas. He told her about the thesis
and how he had to write it to get
his master's degree in psychology
and what he wanted to do when
he was graduated.

"Psychology," he said, "is only
an infant science. It isn't really a
science at all but a metaphysics.
It's a lot of theorizing from in-
sufficient data. The only way you
can get data is by experimenta-
tion, and you can't experiment
because psychology is people, liv-
ing people. Science is a ruthless
business of observation and set-
ting up theories and then knock-
ing them down in laboratories.
Physicists can destroy everything
from atoms to whole islands; biol-
ogists can destroy animals; anat-
omists can dissect cadavers. But
psychologists have no true labor-
atories; they can't be ruthless be-
cause public opinion won't stand
for it, and cadavers aren't much
good. Psychology will never be
a true science until it has its lab-
oratories where it can be just as
ruthless as the physical sciences.
It has to come."

Matt stopped. Abbie was a

good listener; he had forgotten
he was talking to a hill girl.

"Tell me more about K.U.,"
she sighed.

He tried to answer her ques-
tions about what the coeds wore
when they went to classes and
when they had dates and when
they went to dances. Her eyes
grew large and round.

"Guess it would be romantic,"
Abbie sighed. "How far do they
let a fellow go if they ain't —
aren't serious?"

Matt thought Abbie's attempt
to improve her English was
touching — almost pathetic. He
puzzled about her question for a
moment. "I guess it depends on
the girl."

Abbie nodded understandingly.
"Why do they go to college?"

"To get married," Matt said.
"Most of them."

Abbie shook her head. "All
those pretty clothes. All those
men. They must be awful — very
slow not to get married quick.
Can't they get married at home
without waiting so long?"

Matt frowned perplexedly! Ab-
bie had a talent for asking ques-
tions which reached down to basic
social relationships. "The men
they meet at college will make
more money for them."

"Oh," Abbie said. She shrug-
ged. "That's all right, I guess, if
that's what you want."

So it went. Matt paid Abbie

26

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

little compliments on her appear-
ance, and she blushed and looked
pleased. He told her he couldn't
understand why she wasn't be-
sieged by suitors and why she
hadn't been married long ago.
She blushed deeper. He bragged
expansively on the supper she
cooked and swore that he had
never tasted better.

A BBIE couldn't have been hap-
■^*- pier. She hummed through
her tasks. Everything worked well
for her. The dishes were done
almost as soon as they were
started.

Matt walked out on the porch.
He sat down on the edge. Abbie
settled herself beside him, quietly,
not touching him, her hands in
her lap.

The cabin was built on the top
of a ridge. It was night, but the
moon had come up big and yel-
low, and they could look far out
over the valley. Silvery, in a dark
green setting of trees, the lake
glimmered far below.

"Ain't — isn't it purty," Abbie
sighed, folding her hands.

"Pretty," Matt said absently.

"Pretty," Abbie sighed.

They sat in silence. Matt sens-
ed her nearness in a way that was
almost physical. It stirred him.
There was something intensely
feminine about Abbie that was
very appealing at times, in spite
of her plain face and shapeless

clothes and bare feet and lack
of education. Even her single-
minded ambition was a striving
to fulfill her true, her basic func-
tion. In a way it was more vital
and understandable than all the
confused sublimations of the girls
he had known.

Abbie, at least, knew what she
wanted and what she would pay
to get it. She would make some-
one a good wife. Her one goal
would be to make her husband
happy. She would cook and clean
for him and bear his strong,
healthy children with a- great and
thrilling joy. She would be silent
when he was silent, unobtrusive
when he was working, merry
when he was gay, infinitely re-
sponsive when he was passionate.
And the transcendent wonder of
it was that she would be fulfilling
her finest function in doing it; she
would be serenely happy, bliss-
fully content.

Matt lit a cigarette in an at-
tempt to break the mood. He
glanced at her face by the light of
the match. "What is courting like
here in the hills?" he asked.

"Sometimes we walk," Abbie
said dreamily, "and look at things
together, and talk a little. Some-
times there's a dance at the school
house. If a fellow has a boat, you
can go out on the lake. There's
huskin' bees an' church socials
an' picnics. But mostly when the
moon is a-shinin' an' the night is

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

27

warm, we just sit on a porch an'
hold hands and do whatever the
girl's willin' to allow."

Matt reached out and took one
of her hands and held it in his.
It was cool and dry and strong.
It clung to his hand.

She turned her face to him, her
eyes searching for his face in the
darkness. "Do you like me a little
bit, Mr. Wright?" she asked soft-
ly. "Not marryin'-like, but friend-
ly-like?"

"I think that you're the most
feminine girl I've ever met," he
said, and realized it was true.

Almost without volition on
either part, they seemed to lean
together, blending in the night.
Mart's lips sought her pale little
girl lips and found them, and they
weren't pale or little girlish at all,
but warm and soft and passion-
ate. Matt felt her lips part. He
broke away, breathing quickly.

Abbie half turned to nestle
against his shoulder, his arm held
tightly around her. She sighed
contentedly. "I reckon I wouldn't
be unwillin'," she said tremu-
lously, "whatever you wanted to
do."

"I can't understand whv you
didn't get married long ago," he
said.

"T guess it was me," Abbie said
-■- reflectively. "I wasn't right-
ly satisfied with any of my fel-
lows. I'd get mad at them for no

reason at all, and then something
bad would happen to them and
pretty soon no one would come
courtin'. Maybe I expected them
to be what they weren't. I guess
I wasn't really in love with any of
them. Anyways, I'm glad I didn't
get married up." She sighed.

Matt felt the stirrings of some-
thing that felt oddly like com-
punction. What a louse you are,
Matthew Wright!

"What happened to them —
your fellows?" he asked. "Was it
something you did?"

"Folks said it was," Abbie said.
There was a trace of bitterness
in her voice. "They said I had the
evil eye. I don't see how. There
isn't anything wrong with my
eyes, is there?" She looked up at
him ; her eyes were large and dark
blue, with little flecks of silvery
moonlight in them.

"Not a thing," Matt said.
"They're very beautiful."

"I don't see how it could have
been any of my fault," Abbie said.
"Of course, when Hank was late
that evening, I told him he was
so slow he might as well have a
broken leg. Right after that he
was . nailing shingles on a roof,
and he fell off and broke his leg.
But I reckon he'd have broke it
anyways. He was always right
careless.

"And then Gene, he was so cold
I told him he should fall in the
lake and warm up. But a person

28

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

who does a lot of fishin', I guess
he falls in a lot anyways."

"I guess so," Matt said. He
began to shiver.

"You're shivering, Mr. Wright,"
Abbie said solicitously. "Let me
go get your jacket."

"Never mind," Matt said. "It's

about time for bed anyway. You

go in and get ready. Tomorrow —

tomorrow we're going to drive

, to Springfield for some shopping."

"Really, Mr. Wright? I haven't
never been to Springfield," Abbie
said incredulously. She got up,
her eyes shining. "Really?"

"Really," Matt said. "Go on in,
now."

She went in. She was almost
dancing.

Matt sat on the porch for a
few minutes longer, thinking. It
was funny what happened to the
fellows that disappointed Abbie.
When he lit a cigarette, his hand
was shaking.

Abbie had a way of being many
different persons. Already Matt
had known four of them: the
moody little girl with braids down
her back shuffling along a dusty
road or bouncing gleefully on a
car seat; the happy, placid house-
wife with cheeks rosy from the
stove; the unhappy vessel of
strange powers, tearful and re-
luctant; the girl with the passion-
ate lips in the moon-streaked
darkness. Which one was Abbie,
the true Abbie?

T'HE next morning Matt had a
-"• fifth Abbie to consider. Her
face was scrubbed and shining
until it almost rivaled her eyes.
Her braided hair was wound in a
coronet around her head. She was
wearing a different dress made of
a shiny blue quilted material with
a red lining. Matt scanned his
small knowledge of dress mate-
rials. Taffeta? The color did ter-
rible things to her hair. The dress
had a V-shape neck and back and
fitted better than anything she
had worn yet. On one hip was a
large artificial rose. Her stock-
ingless feet were enclosed in a
pair of black, patent-leather
sandals.

My God! Matt thought. Her
Sunday best! I'll have to walk
with that down the streets of
Springfield. He shuddered, and
resisted the impulse to tear off
that horrible rose.

"Well," he said, "all ready?"

Abbie blushed excitedly. "Are
we really going to Springfield, Mr.
- Wright?"

"We are if the car will start."

"Oh, it'll start," Abbie said
confidently.

Matt gave her a thoughtful
sidelong glance. That was another
thing.

After the usual hearty break-
fast, with fried potatoes on the
side, they got into the car. The
brakes released without hesita-
tion.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

29

The drive was more than fifty
miles, half of it over dirt roads
that were roller-coaster wash-
boards, and they drove it in si-
lence. Every few miles Matt
would glance at Abbie out of the
corner of his eye and shudder.
As excited as she was, like a child,
Abbie was contented to sit quietly
and enjoy the ride, particularly
when they swung off the dirt road
onto Highway 665.

When they came into Spring-
field, Abbie's face was glowing.
She stared at the buildings as if
they had sprung magically into
being especially for her. Then
she began to inspect the people
walking along the streets. Matt
noticed that it was the women
who received her closest atten-
tion.

Suddenly Matt noticed that
Abbie was very quiet. He glanced
toward her. She was still, staring
down at her hands resting in her
lap.

"What's the matter?" Matt
asked.

"I guess," she said, her voice a
little unsteady, "I guess I look
pretty funny. I guess you'll feel
ashamed having me along. If it's
all right with you, Mr. Wright,
I'll just sit in the car."

"Nonsense," Matt said heartily.
"You look fine." The little devil,
he thought. She has an uncanny
talent for understanding things.
She's either unusually perceptive

or — What? "Besides, I'll need
you to try on some clothes."

"Clothes, Mr. Wright!" she ex-
claimed. She seemed to find it
hard to speak. "You're going to
buy some clothes."

Matt nodded. He parked the
car in front of Springfield's big-
gest department store. He came
around to Abbie's door and help-
ed her out. For a moment Abbie's
face was level with his; her blue
eyes locked with his dark ones in
a look that Matt refused to ana-
lyze. They walked into the store,
Abbie clinging to his arm. He
could feel her heart beating swift-
ly. Matt stopped a moment to
study the directory.

"Second floor," he said.

Abbie held back as Matt start-
ed off. "Kin we — can we look
around here — for just a second?"
Abbie asked hesitantly.

Matt glanced at her and shrug-
ged. "I suppose so."

A BBIE started off determinedly
■*■■ toward some mysterious, un-
seen destination, leading Matt
down innumerable aisles. All the
way to the back of the store they
went, and emerged miraculously
into the kitchenware department.
Abbie stopped on the threshhold,
gazing rapturously at the gleam-
ing pots and pans, beaters, knives,
and gadgets, as if they were
jewels. She dismissed with a
glance the stoves and electrical

30

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

appliances, but the cooking uten-
sils brought forth long sighs.
After a moment she moved
among them, staring at them,
touching them with one timid fin-
ger. She made little crooning
sounds deep in her throat.

Matt had to drag her away.

They were almost to the stairs
when Matt noticed that she was
1 olding something to her breast.
He stopped. He stared aghast.
She was hugging a tiny frying
pan of shiny aluminum and dully
gleaming copper.

"Where did you get that?" he
demanded.

"Back there," she said inno-
cently. "They got so many.
They'll never miss a little thing
like this."

"But you can't do that!" Matt
said. "That's stealing."

" 'Tain't stealing when they got
so much and I got so little," she
explained.

"You've got to take it, back!"
Matt made a futile grab for the
frying pan. Abbie hugged it to
her breast with both arms.

"Don't take it away from me!"
she wailed. "Please don't make
me take it back!"

Matt glanced around nervous-
ly. So far no one seemed to be
watching them. He turned back
to Abbie. "Sh-h-h!" he said. "Be
quiet now. Please be quiet." He
looked at her pleadingly. She
hugged the frying pan tighter.

"All right," he sighed. "Stay here!
Don't move! Don't say any-
thing!"

QUICKLY he walked back to
kitchenwares. He caught the
attention of the clerk. "How
much are those," he said, pointing
to the frying pans.

"Four-fifty, sir. Shall I wrap
one up?"

"Four-fifty!"

"Yes, sir," the man said. "We
have some cheaper ones in all
aluminum — "

"Never mind," Matt said hur-
riedly. He pulled out his billfold.
"Here. Give me a receipt and a
sack."

The clerk picked up a frying
pan.

"No, no," Matt said. "I don't
want one. I just want a receipt
and a sack."

"But, sir," the man said be-
wilderedly. "You said — "

"Don't argue with me," Matt
said. "Just give me a receipt and
a sack!"

The clerk rang up the sale, tore
off the receipt, dropped it in a
sack, and handed it to Matt with
a very dazed expression on his
face.

"Anything else, sir?" he asked
automatically.

"I hope not," said Matt, and
hurried away. When he looked
back the clerk was still staring
after him.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

31

A BBIE was standing by the
-'*- stairs where he had left her.

"Put the frying pan in here,"
he whispered.

She gave him a look of admira-
tion. "Oh, that was real clever of
you."

Matt mopped his forehead.
"Yes, wasn't it." He took her arm
and hurried her up the stairs. At
the top Matt came to a halt and
looked around. Abbie stared with
big eyes at the racks upon racks
of dresses.

"I never knew," she whispered,
"there was so many dresses in the
world."

Matt nodded absently. He. had
to get away long enough to find a
laboratory from which to rent
some testing apparatus.

He saw a saleswoman, and
drew her aside.

"The girl" over there," he said.
"I want you to take her to the
beauty parlor and give her the
works. Haircut, shampoo, setting,
facial, eyebrows thinned and
shaped and a makeup job. Then
get her a new outfit from the skin
out. Can you do all that?"

The saleswoman looked quite
pleased. "We'll be very happy to
help you."

Matt took out his billfold and
peered into it. Slowly he extracted
one traveler's check for one hun-
dred dollars and then another.
It left him only three hundred
dollars, and he still had to get

the equipment and live for the
rest of the summer. Matt sighed
and countersigned the checks.
"Try to keep it under this," he
said heavily. "If you can."

"Yes, sir," said the saleswoman
and hesitated, smiling. "Your
fiancee?"

"Good God, no," Matt blurted
out. "I mean — she's my — niece.
It's her birthday."

He walked over to Abbie,
breathing heavily. "Go with this
woman, Abbie, and do what she
tells you."

"Yes, Mr. Wright," Abbie said
dazedly. And she walked away
as if she were entering into fairy-
land.

Matt turned, biting his lip. He
felt slightly sick.

TTE had one more thing to do
-"-■■- before he could leave the
store. Making sure Abbie was
gone, he went into the lingerie
department. He regretted it al-
most immediately. Once he had
seen a woman come into a pool
hall; he must, he thought, wear
the same sheepish, out-of-place
expression.

He swallowed his qualms —
they were a hard lump in his
throat — and walked up to the
counter.

"Yes, sir," said the young wom-
an brightly, "what can I do for
you?"

Matt avoided looking at her.

32

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"I'd like to buy a negligee," he
said in a low voice.

"What size?"

Matt began a motion with his
hands and then dropped them
hastily at his sides. "About five
feet tall. Slim."

The woman led him along the
counter. "Any particular color?"

"Uh — black," Matt said
hoarsely.

The clerk brought out a gar-
ment that was very black, very
lacy, very sheer. "This is thirty-
nine ninety-eight."

Matt stared at it. "That's aw-
fully black," he said.

"We have some others," the
clerk began, folding the negligee.

"Never mind," Matt said
quickly. "Wrap it up." Furtively,
he slipped the money over the
counter.

When he came out, the pack-
age under his arm, he was sweat-
ing freely.

He put the box in his car and
looked at his watch. He had
about two and a half hours, at
least. He should be able to find
everything he needed in that time.

He pulled a list of things out
of his pocket, and found a tele-
phone directory in a drugstore.

OPRINGFIELD had a labora-
^ tory supply house. He called
the number, asked for the equip-
ment he'd need, was told they
had it for rent, and drove over' to

pick it up. The rental didn't seem
like much by the day, but it was,
he discovered on figuring it out,
a lot by the month — enough to
break him fast if he didn't get
something like a controlled series
of tests, very fast.

Feeling like a child-slayer, he
drove back to the department
store and parked.

Only one hour had gone by.
He went into the store and brows-
ed about.

Two hours. He put another
nickel in the parking meter. He
sat down in a red leather chair
and tried to look as if he were
testing it for size and comfort.

Three hours. He fed the park-
ing meter again, and began to
feel hungry. He went back to the
chair. From it, he could keep an
eye on the stairs.

Women went up and came
down. None of them were Abbie.
He wondered, with a flash of fear,
if she had been caught trying to
make off with something else.

Matt tried not watching the
stairs on the theory that a watch-
ed pot never boils. Never again,
he vowed, would he go shopping
with a woman. Where the devil
was Abbie?

"Mr. Wright." The voice was
tremulous and low.

Matt looked up and leaped out
of his chair. The girl standing
beside him was blond and breath-
taking. The hair was short and

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

33

fluffed out at the ends; it framed
a beautiful face. A soft, simple
black dress with a low neckline
clung to a small but womanly
figure. Slim, long legs in sheer
stockings and. small black shoes
with towering heels.

"Good God, Abbie! What have
they done to you?"

"Don't you like it?" Abbie
asked. The lovely face clouded
up.

"It's — it's marvelous," Matt
spluttered. "But they bleached
your hair!"

Abbie beamed. "The woman
who worked on it called it a
rinse. She said it was natural, but
I should wash it every few days.
Not with laundry soap, either."
She sighed. "I didn't know there
was so much a girl could do to
her face. I've got so much to
learn. Why, she — "

Abbie prattled on happily while
Matt stared at her, incredulous.
Had he been sleeping in the same
small cabin with this girl? Had
she been cooking his meals and
darning the holes in his pockets?
Had he really kissed her and held
her in his arms and heard her
say. "I reckon I wouldn't be un-
willin' — "

He wondered if he would act
the same again.

"jl/f ATT had expected a differ-
-'-*-'■ ence but not such a startling
one. She wore her clothes with a

becoming sureness. She walked
on the high heels as if she had
worn them all her life. She car-
ried herself as if she was born to
beauty. But then, things always
worked well for Abbie.

Abbie opened a small black
purse and took out five dollars
and twenty-one cents. "The wom-
an said I should give this back
to you."

Matt took it and looked at it
in his hand and back at Abbie.
He shrugged and smiled. "The
power of money. Have you got
everything?"

Under her arm she carried a
large package that contained, no
doubt, the clothes and shoes she
had worn. Matt took it from her.
She refused to give up the pack-
age that held the frying pan.

"I couldn't wear this," she said.
She reached into her purse and
pulled out something black and
filmy. She held it up by one
strap. "It was uncomfortable."

Matt shot nervous glances to
the right and the left. "Put it
away." He crammed it back into
the purse and snapped the purse
shut. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat a hog," Abbie said.

Coming from this blonde crea-
ture, the incongruity set Matt to
laughing. Abbie stared with wide
eyes. "Did I say something
wrong?" she asked plaintively.

"No." Matt got out and led her
toward the door.

34

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"You got to tell me," Abbie
said appealingly. "There's so
much I don't know."

Matt located the most expen-
sive restaurant in town. It had a
romantic atmosphere but he had
chosen it because it specialized in
sea food. He wanted to be sure
that Abbie had things to eat she
had never tasted before.

T

Matt ordered for both of them :
shrimp cocktail, assorted relish-
es, chef's salad with roquefort
dressing, broiled lobster tails with
drawn butter, french fried po-
tatoes, broccoli with a cheese
sauce, frozen eclair, coffee. The
food was good, and Abbie ate
everything with great wonder-
ment, as if it were about to disap-
pear into the mysterious place
from which it came.

She stared wide T eyed at the
room and its decorations and the
other diners and the waiter, and
seemed oblivious of the fact that
other men were staring admiring-
ly at her. The waiter puzzled her.
"Is this all he does?" she asked
timidly. Matt nodded. "He's very
good at it," Abbie conceded.

"Try to move the coffee cup,"
Matt said when they finished.

Abbie stared at it for a moment.
"I can't," she said softly. "I tried
awful — very hard, but I can't.
I'd do anything you wanted, Mr.
Wright, but I can't do that."

Matt smiled. "That's all right.
I just wanted to see if you could."

1%/JATT found a place tfley
■'■*■*■ could dance. He ordered a
couple of drinks. Abbie sipped
hers once, made a face, and
wouldn't touch it again.

She danced lightly and grace-
fully in her high-heeled shoes.
They brought the top of her head
level with his lips. She rested her
head blissfully against his shoul-
der and pressed herself very close.
For a moment Matt relaxed and
let himself enjoy the pleasures of
the aftermath of a good meal and
a beautiful girl in his arms. But
Abbie seemed to be in a private
Eden of her own, as if she had
entered a paradise and was afraid
to speak for fear the spell would
break.

During the long drive home,
she spoke only once. "Do people
live like that all the time?"

"No," Matt said. "Not always.
Not unless they have a lot of
money."

Abbie nodded. "That's the way
it should be," she said softly. "It
should only happen a long ways
apart."

When they reached the cabin,
Matt reached into the back seat
for the package he had bought.

"What's that?" Abbie asked.

"Open it," Matt said.

She held it up a little, lacy and
black in the moonlight. Then she
turned to look at Matt, her face
transparent, her eyes glowing.
"Wait out here a minute, will

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

35

you?" she asked breathlessly.

"All right." Matt lit a cigarette
and stood on the porch looking
out over the valley, hating him-
self.

After a few minutes, he heard
a little whisper. "Come in, Mr.
Wright."

H 1

E opened the door started in
and stopped, stunned. One
kerosene lamp lit the room dimly.
The new clothes were draped
carefully over the edge of a chair.
Abbie was wearing the negligee.
That was all. Through its lacy
blackness she gleamed pink and
white, a lovely vision of seduc-
tiveness. She stood by the table,
staring at the floorr When she
looked up, her cheeks were
flushed.

Suddenly she ran lightly across
the floor and threw her arms
around Matt's neck and kissed
him hard on the lips. Her lips
moved. She drew back a little,
looking up at him.

"There's only one way a girl
like me can thank a man for a
day as wonderful as this," she
whispered. "For the clothes and
the trip and the dinner and the
dancing. And for being so nice.
I never thought anything like this
would ever happen to me. I don't
mind. I guess it isn't bad when
you really like someone. I like
you awful — very well. I'm glad
they made me pretty. If I can

make you happy — just for a
moment — "

Gently, feeling sick, Matt took
her hands from around his neck.
"You don't understand," he said
coldly. "I've done a terrible thing.
I don't know how you can ever
forgive me. Somehow you mis-
understood me. Those clothes, the
negligee — they're for another
girl — the girl I'm going to marry
— my fiancee. You're about her
size and I thought — I don't
know how I could have mis-
led . . ."

He stopped. It was enough. His
plan had worked. Abbie had
crumpled. Slowly, as he spoke,
the life had drained out of her,
the glow had fled from her face,
and she seemed to shrink in upon
herself, cold and broken. She was
a little girl, slapped across the
face in her most spiritual moment
by the one person she had trusted
most.

"That's all right," she said
faintly. "Thanks for letting me
think they was mine — that it
was for me — only for a little.
I'll never forget."

She turned and went to the
bunk and let the blanket fall
back around her.

It was the sobbing that kept
Matt from going to sleep that
night. Or maybe it was the way
the sobs were so soft and muffled
that he had to strain to hear
them.

36

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

T»REAKFAST was a miserable
•*-* meal. There was something
wrong with the food, although
Matt couldn't quite pin down
what it was. Everything was
cooked just the same, but the
flavor was gone. Matt cut and
chewed mechanically and tried
to avoid looking at Abbie. It
wasn't difficult; she seemed very
small today, and she kept her
eyes on the floor.

She was dressed in the shape-
less blue gingham once more. She
toyed listlessly with her food. Her
face was scrubbed free of make-
up, and everything about her was
dull. Even her newly blonde hair
had faded.

Several times Matt opened his
mouth to apologize again, and
shut it without saying anything.
Finally he cleared his throat and
said, "Where's your new frying
pan?"

She looked up for the first time.
Her blue eyes were cloudy. "I
put it away," she said lifelessly,
"do you want it back?"

"No, no," Matt said hurriedly.
"I was just asking."

Silence fell again, like a sodden
blanket. Matt sat and chain-
smoked while Abbie cleaned up
the table and washed the dishes.

When she finished she turned
around with her back to the dish-
pan. "Do you want me to move
things for you? I can do it real
good today."

Matt saw the little pile of pack-
ages in the corner and noticed
for the first time that the new
clothes were gone. He steeled
himself. "How do you know?"

"I got a feeling."

"Do you mind?"

"I don't mind. I don't mind
anything." She came forward and
sat down in the chair. "Look!"

The table between them lifted,
twisted, tilted on one leg, and
crashed on its side to the floor.

"How did you feel?" Matt said
excitedly. "Can you control the
power? Was the movement acci-
dental?"

"It felt like it was kind of a
part of me," Abbie said. "Like
my hand. But I didn't know ex-
actly what it was going to do."

"Wait a minute," Matt said.
"I'm going to get some things out
of the car. Maybe we can learn a
little more about what makes you
able to do things like this. You
don't mind, do you?"

"What's the good of it?" she
asked listlessly.

Matt dashed out to the car and
pulled the two cartons of equip-
ment out of the trunk. He carried
them into the shack and laid the
apparatus out on the table. He
went back to the car and brought
in the bathroom scales he'd
bought in the drugstore in Spring-
field.

"All right, Abbie. First, let's
find out a few things about you

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

37

before we try moving anything
else."

Abbie complied automatically
while he took her temperature
and pulse, measured her blood
pressure and weighed her. "I wish
I could set up controls to measure
your basal metabolism," he mut-
tered as he worked, "but this will
have to do. I wish this shack had
a generator."

"I could get you electricity,"
Abbie said without much interest.

"Hmmm — you could at that,
I guess. But that would make
these tests meaningless, if you
had to devote energy to keeping
the equipment running."

TTE cursed the limited knowl-
-■"■- edge that was undoubtedly
making him miss things that a
man who had studied longer
would have know more about.

But there wasn't anything he
could do about that. Once he'd
reached some preliminary con-
clusions, more experienced re-
searchers could take over the job.

Working carefully, he wrote
down the results.

"Now, Abbie, would you please
pick that chair up off the floor,
and hold it up for a few minutes?
No — I mean really go over and
pick it up."

He let her hold it for exactly
five minutes, then ran her through
the same tests as before, noting
the changes in temperature, blood

pressure, pulse rate, respiration,
and then he weighed her again.

"All right. Take a rest now.
We'll have to wait until these
readings drop down to what they
were before we do anything else,"
Matt said.

Still not displaying anything
more than acquiescence, Abbie
sat down in another chair and
stared at the floor.

"Abbie, do you mind helping
me?" Matt asked. "It's for your
benefit, too. If you can control
these powers all the time, maybe
the fellows around here will stop
breaking legs and falling into
lakes."

Abbie's dull expression did not
change. "I don't care," she said.

Matt sighed. For a moment, he
considered dropping his experi-
ments and just getting out of
Abbie's life — packing his thesis
notes and typewriter in the car
and driving back to the Univer-
sity. But he couldn't stop now. He
was too close to the beginnings of
an answer.

He checked Abbie again, and
found that his readings coincided
with the first set. The short rest
had dropped her heartbeat and
respiration back to normal.

"Let's try all over again," Matt
said. "Lift that chair to the same
height you were holding it,
please."

The chair jerked upward, hesi-
tantly. "Easy. Just a little more."

38

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

It straightened, then moved more
steadily. "Hold it there." The
chair hovered motionless in the
air, maintaining its position. Matt
waited five minutes. "All right.
Let it down now, easy. Slow."
The chair settled gently to the
floor, like a drifting feather.

Once more, he checked Abbie.

Her heartbeat was below what
it had been. Her blood pressure
was lower. Her respiration was
shallow — her breast was barely
rising to each breath. Her temper-
ature was low — dangerously so,
for an ordinary human being.

"How do you feel?" he asked
apprehensively. If this was what
always happened, then Abbie was
in real danger every time she used
her powers.

"All right," she said with no
more than her previous disinter-
est. Matt frowned, but she was
showing no signs of discomfort.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "You want me
to try some more?"

"If you're sure you're not in
danger. But I want you to stop
if you feel any pain or if you're
uncomfortable. Now, lift the table
just this far . . ."

HPHEY practiced with the table
-*- for an hour. At the end of that
time, Abbie had it under perfect
control. She could raise it a frac-
tion of an inch or rocket it to the
ceiling where it would remain,

legs pointing stiffly toward the
floor, until she lowered it. She
balanced it on one leg and set it
spinning like a top.

Distance did not seem to di-
minish Abbie's control or power.
She could make the table per-
form equally well from any point
in the room, from outside the
cabin, or from a point to which
she shuffled dispiritedly several
hundred yards down the road.

"How do you know where it is
and what it's doing?" Matt asked
frowning.

Abbie shrugged listlessly. "I
just feel it."

"With what?" Matt asked. "Do
you see it? Feel it? Sense it? If
we could isolate the sense — "

"It's all of those," Abbie said.

Matt shook his head in frustra-
tion. "You look a little tired.
You'd better lie down."

She lay in her bunk, not mov-
ing, her face turned to the wall,
but Matt knew that she wasn't
asleep. When she didn't get up to
fix lunch, Matt opened a can of
soup and tried to get her to eat
some of it.

"No, thanks, Mr. Wright,"
Abbie said. "I ain't hungry."

"I'm not hungry," Matt cor-
rected.

Abbie didn't respond. In the
evening she got out of her bunk
to fix supper, but she didn't eat
more than a few mouthfuls. After
she washed the dishes, she went

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

39

back into her bunk and pulled
the blanket around it.

Matt sat up, trying to make
sense out of his charts. Despite
their readings, Abbie hadn't re-
acted dangerously to what should
have been frightening physiologi-
cal changes. He could be fairly
safe in assuming that they always
accompanied the appearance of
her parapsychological powers —
and she had certainly lived
through those well enough.

But why was there such a dif-
ference in the way she reacted
when she was happy and when
she wasn't? The first morning,
when she had barely been able
to assume conscious control, she'd
been ravenously hungry. Today,
when she had performed feats
that made the others insignificant
she was neither hungry nor ab-
normally exhausted. She was
tired, yes, but there had been a
measurable, though slight, ex-
penditure of energy with each ac-
tion, which, accumulated through
their numerous experiments,
could be expected to equal that
required for an afternoon's nor-
mal work.

What was different? Why,
when she tried with what amount-
ed to will-power alone, was it
harder for her to move an object
telekinetically than it would have
been to do so physically? Why
was the reverse true when she
was unhappy?

Unless she was tapping a source
of energy somewhere.

The thought sounded as though
there might be something behind
it. He reached for a blank sheet
of paper and began jotting down
ideas.

Disregarding the first morning's
experiments, when she was obvi-
ously succeeding despite this
hypothetical force, what source
of energy could she be contact-
ing?

Well, what physical laws was
she violating? Gravity? Inertia?

T¥THEN Abbie was unhappy,
» * she could nullify gravity —
no, not exactly gravity — mass.
Once she had done that, a proc-
ess that might not require much
energy at all, the object rose by
itself, and, having no mass, could
be pushed around easily. Some-
how, by some unconscious mecha-
nism, she could restore measured
amounts of mass and — there
was an idea trying to come to the
surface of his thinking — of
course ! The energy created by the
moving or falling body when
mass , was restored and gravity
re-asserted itself was channeled
into her body. She stopped being
a chemical engine sustained by
food burned in the presence of
oxygen, and became a receiver
for the power generated by the
moving bodies.

Writing quickly, he systemat-

40

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

ized what he had learned. Obvi-
ously, the energy restored when
the manipulated objects fell or
swooped back into place couldn't
quite balance the energy required
to move them. She did get tired
— but nowhere near as tired as
she should have been. If she em-
pathized with her feelings at such
times, she retained a bare margin
of control even when happy, but
she lost the delicate ability to tap
the energy thus liberated, and had
to draw on her own body for the
power.

Matt grimaced. If that was true
— and his charts and graph con-
firmed it, then she could never use
her powers unless she was miser-
able.

And the key to that lay buried
in the childhood of a little hill
girl, who probably had been
scolded and beaten, as hill chil-
dren were when they were bad.
In this case 'bad' meaning a little
girl who could move things with-
out touching them, who had been
confronted with the example of
'Libby,' the perfect little girl who
would, always have minded her
mother, until she had come to
associate the use of her powers
only with unhappiness, with not
being wanted, with rejection on
the part of the people whom she
loved.

Matt winced. You louse,
Wright!

But it was too late to do any-

thing about it now. He had to
go on with what he was doing.

A BBIE'S appetite wasn't any
*■■ better in the morning. She
looked tired, too, as if she hadn't
slept. Matt stared at her for
a moment thoughtfully, then
shrugged and put her to work.

In a few minutes, Abbie could
duplicate her feats with the table
of the day before with a control
that was, if anything, even finer.
Matt extended his experiment
to her subjective reactions.

"Let's isolate the source," he
said. "Relax. Try to do it with
the mind alone. Will the table to
move."

Matt jotted down notes. At the
end of half an hour he had the
following results:

Mind alone — negative.

Body alone — negative.

Emotions alone — negative.

It was crude and uncertain. It
would take days or months of
practice to be able to use the
mind without a sympathetic ten-
sion of the body, or to stop think-
ing or to wall off an emotion.
But Matt was fairly sure that the
telekinetic ability was a complex
of all three and perhaps some oth-
ers that he had no way of know-
ing about, which Abbie couldn't
describe. But if any of the pri-
mary three were inhibited, con-
sciously or unconsciously, Abbie
could not move a crumb of bread.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

41

Two of them could be con-
trolled. The third was a product
of environment and circum-
stances. Abbie had to be unhappy.

A muscle twitched in Mart's
jaw, and he told Abbie to try
moving more than one object.
He saw a cup of coffee rise in the
air, turn a double somersault
without spilling a drop, and sit
down gently in the saucer that
climbed to meet it. Matt stood
up, picked the cup out of the air,
drank the coffee, and put the cup
back. The saucer did not wobble.

There were limits to Abbie's
ability. The number of dissimilar
objects she could manipulate
seemed to be three, regardless of
size; she could handle five similar
objects with ease, and she had
made six slices of bread do an
intricate dance in the air. It was
possible, of course, that she might
improve with practice.

"My God!" Matt exclaimed.
"You could make a fortune as a
magician."

"Could I?" Abbie said without
interest. She pleaded a headache
and went to bed. Matt said noth-
ing. They had worked for an hour
and a half.

Matt lit a cigarette. The latent
telekinetic power could explain a
lot of things, poltergeist phenom-
ena, for instance, and in a more
conscious form, levitation and the
Indian rope trick and the whole
gamut of oriental mysticism.

He spent the rest of the day
making careful notes of every-
thing Abbie did, the date and
time, the object and its approxi-
mate weight and its movements.
When he finished, he would have
a complete case history. Com-
plete except for the vital parts
which he did not dare put down
on paper.

Several times he turned to stare
at Abbie's still, small form. He
was only beginning to realize the
tremendous potentialities locked
up within her. His awareness had
an edge of fear. What role was it
he'd chosen for himself. He had
been fairy godmother, but that no
longer. Pygmalion? He felt a
little like Pandora must have
felt before she opened the box.
Or, perhaps, he thought ruefully,
he was more like Doctor Frank-
enstein.

A BBIE did not get up at all
■*"■ that day, and she refused to
eat anything Matt fixed. Next
morning, when she climbed slow-
ly from her bunk, his apprehen-
sion sharpened.

She was gaunt, and her face
had a middle-aged, haggard look.
Her blond hair was dull and life-
less. Matt had already cooked
breakfast, but she only went
through the motions of eating.
He urged her, but she put her
fork down tiredly.

"It don't matter," she said.

42

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"Maybe you're sick," Matt
fretted. "We'll take you to a
doctor."

Abbie looked at Matt levelly
and shook her head. "What's
wrong with me, a doctor won't
fix."

That was the morning Matt
saw a can of baking powder pass
through his chest. Abbie had been
tossing it to Matt at various
speeds, gauging the strength of
the push necessary. Matt would
either catch it or Abbie would
stop it short and bring it back to
her. But this time it came too
fast, bullet-like. Involuntarily,
Matt looked down, tensing his
body for the impact.

He saw the can go in . . .

Abbie's eyes were wide and
frightened. Matt turned around
dazedly, prodding his chest with
trembling fingers. The can had
shattered against the cabin wall
behind him. It lay on the floor,
battered, in a drift of powder.

"It went in," Matt said. "I
saw it, but I didn't feel a thing.
It passed right through me. What
happened, Abbie?"

"I couldn't stop it," she whis-
pered, "so I just sort of wishe 1
it wasn't there. For just a mo-
ment. And it wasn't."

That was how they found out
that Abbie could teleport. It was
as simple as telekinesis. She co.'ld
project or pull objects through
walls without hurting either one.

Little things, big things. It made
no difference. Distance made no
difference either, apparently.

"What about living things?"
Matt asked.

Abbie concentrated. Suddenly
there was a mouse on the table,
a brown field mouse with twitch-
ing whiskers and large, startled
black eyes. For a moment it
crouched there, frozen, and then
it scampered for the edge of the
table, straight toward Abbie.

Abbie screamed and reacted.
Twisting in the air, the mouse
vanished. Matt looked up, his
mouth hanging open. Abbie was
three feet in the air, hovering like
a hummingbird. Slowly she sank
down to her chair.

"It works on people, too,"
Matt whispered. "Try it again.
Try it on me."

TV/I" ATT felt nauseated, as if he
-'-"-■- had suddenly stepped off the
Earth. The room shifted around
him. He looked down. He was
floating in the air about two feet
above the chair he had been sit-
ting on. He was turning slowly,
so that the room seemed to re-
volve around him.

He looked for Abbie, but she
was behind him now. Slowly she
drifted into view. "That's fine,"
he said. Abbie looked happier
than she had looked for days.
She almost smiled.

Matt began to turn more rapid-

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

43

ly. In a moment he was spinning
like a top; the room flashed into
a kaleidoscope. He swallowed
hard. ' "All right," he shouted,
"that's enough."

Abruptly he stopped spinning
and dropped. His stomach soared
up into his throat. He thumped
solidly into the chair and imme-
diately hopped up with a howl
of anguish. He rubbed himself
with both hands.

"Ouch!" he shouted. And then
accusingly, "You did that on
purpose."

Abbie looked innocent. "I done
what you said."

"All right, you did," Matt said
bitterly. "From now on, I resign
as a guinea pig."

Abbie folded her hands in her
lap. "What shall I do?

"Practice on yourself," Matt
said.

"Yes, Mr. Wright." She rose
sedately in the air. "This is won-
derful." She stretched out as if
she were laying in bed. She floated
around the room. Matt was re-
minded of shows in which he had
seen magicians producing the
same illusion, passing hoops
cleverly around their assistant's
body to show that there were no
wires. Only this wasn't magic;
this wasn't illusion; this was real.

Abbie settled back into the
chair. Her face was glowing. "I
feel like I could do anything,"
she said. "Now what shall I try."

k

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Matt thought a moment. "Can
you project yourself?"

"Where to?"

"Oh, anywhere," Matt said im-
patiently. "It doesn't matter."

"Anywhere?" she repeated.
There was a distant and unread-
able expression in her eyes.

And then she vanished.

Matt stared at the chair she
had been in. She was gone, indis-
putably gone. He searched the
room, a simple process. There was
no sign of her. He went outside.
The afternoon sun beat down,
exposing everything in a harsh
light.

"Abbie!" Matt shouted. "Ab-
bie!" He waited. He heard only
the echo drifting back from the
hills across the lake. For five
minutes he roamed about the
cabin, shouting and calling, be-
fore he gave up.

He went back into the cabin.
He sat down and stared moodily
at the bunk where Abbie had
slept. Where was she now? Was
she trapped in some extra dimen-
sion, weird and inexplicable to

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

45

the senses, within which her
power could not work.

There had to be some such
explanation for teleportation —
a fourth dimensional shortcut
across our three. Why not — if
she could nullify mass, she could
adjust atoms so that they en-
tered one of the other dimen-
sions.

i S he brooded, remorse came
*"■ to him slowly, creeping in so
stealthily that awareness of it was
like a blow. The whole scheme
had been madness. He could not
understand now the insane am-
bition that had led to this tinker-
ing with human lives and the
structure of the Universe. He had
justified it to himself with the
name of science. But the word
had no mystic power of absolu-
tion.

His motive had been something
entirely different. It was only a
sublimated lust for power, and
thinly disguised at that. The
power, of knowledge. And for
that lust, which she could never
understand, an innocent, un-
sophisticated girl had suffered.

Was Abbie dead? Perhaps that
was the most merciful thing.

Ends can never justify means,
Matt realized now. They are too
inextricably intertwined ever to
be separated. The means inevit-
ably shape the ends. In the long
view, there are neither means nor

ends, for the means are only an
infinite series of ends, and the
ends are an infinite series of
means . . .

And Abbie appeared. Like an
Arabian genie, with gifts upon a
tray, streaming a mouth-watering
incense through the air. Full-
formed, she sprang into being, her
cheeks glowing, her eyes shining.

"Abbie!" Matt shouted joy-
fully. His heart gave a sharp
bound, as if it had suddenly been
released from an unbearable
weight. "Where have you been?"

"Springfield."

"Springfield!" Matt gasped.
"But that's over fifty miles."

Abbie lowered the tray to the
table. She snapped her fingers.
"Like that, I was there."

Matt's eyes fell to the tray. It
was loaded with cooked food:
shrimp cocktail, broiled lobster
tails, french fried . . .

Abbie smiled. "I got hungry."

"But where — ?" Matt began.
"You went back to the restau-
rant," he said accusingly, "you
took the food from there."

Abbie nodded happily. "I was
hungry."

"But that's stealing," Matt
moaned. And he realized for the
first time the enormity of the
thing he had done, what he had
let loose upon the world. Nothing
was safe. Neither money nor
jewels nor deadly secrets. Noth-
ing at all.

46

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"They won't ever miss it," Ab-
bie said, "and nobody saw me."
She said it simply, as the ultimate
justification.

Matt was swept by the stagger-
ing realization that where her
basic drives were concerned Abbie
was completely unmoral. There
was only one small hope. If he
could keep her from realizing her
civilization-shattering potentiali-
ties! They might never occur to
her.

"Sure," Matt said. "Sure."

Abbie ate heartily, but Matt
had no appetite. He sat thought-
fully, watching her eat, and he
experienced a brief thankfulness
that at least she wasn't going to
starve to death.

"Didn't you have any trouble?"
he asked. "Getting the food with-
out anyone seeing you?"

Abbie nodded. "I couldn't de-
cide how to get into the kitchen.
I could see that the cook was all
alone . . ."

"You could see?"

"I was outside, but I could see
into the kitchen, somehow. So
finally, I called 'Albert!' And the
cook went out and I went in and
took the food that was sitting on
the tray and came back here.
It was really simple, because the
cook was expecting someone to
call him."

"How did you know that?"

"I thought it," Abbie said,
frowning. "Like this."

SHE concentrated for a mo-
ment. He watched her, puz-
zled, and then knew what she
meant. Panic caught him by the
throat. There were things she
shouldn't know. Because he was
trying so hard to bury them deep,
they scuttled across his conscious-
ness.

Telepathy!

And as he watched her face, he
knew that he was right.

Her eyes grew wide and in-
credulous. Slowly, something
hard and cruelly cold slipped over
her face like a mask.

Oh, Abbie! My sweef, gentle
Abbie!

"You — " she gasped. "You
devil! There ain't nothin' too bad
for anyone who'd do that!"

I'm a dead man, Matt thought.

"You with your kindness and
your handsome face and your city
manners," Abbie said pitifully.
"How could you do it? You made
me fall in love with you. It wasn't
hard, was it? All you had to do
was hold a little hill girl's hand
in the moonlight an' kiss her
once, an' she was ready to jump
into bed with you. But you didn't
want anything as natural as that. .
All the time you was laughing
and scheming. Poor little hill girl!

"You make me think you like
me so well you want me to look
real purty in new clothes and new
hair and a new face. But it's just
a trick. All the time it's a trick.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

47

When I'm feeling happiest and
most grateful, you take it all
away. I'd sooner you hit me
across the face. Poor little hill
girl! Thinking you wanted her.
Thinking maybe you were aiming
to marry her. I wanted to die.
Even Paw was never that mean.
He never done anything a-pur-
pose, like you."

White-faced, Matt watched her,
his mind racing.

"You're thinking you can get
around me somehow," Abbie
said, "and I'll forget. You can
make me think it was all a mis-
take. 'Tain't no use. You can't,
not ever, because I know what
you're thinking."

What had he been thinking?
Had he actually thought of mar-
rying her? Just for a second? He
shuddered. It would be hell.
Imagine, if you can, a wife who-
is all-knowing, all-powerful, who
can never be evaded, avoided,
sighed to, lied to, shut out, shut
up. Imagine a wife who can make
a room a shambles in a second,
who can throw dishes and chairs
and tables with equal facility and
deadly accuracy. Imagine a wife
who can be any place, any time,
in the flicker of a suspicion.
Imagine a wife who can see
through walls and read minds
and maybe wish you a raging
headache or a broken leg or ach-
ing joints.

It would be worse than hell.

The torments of the damned
would be pleasant compared to
that.

Abbie's chin came up. "You
don't need to worry. I'd as soon
marry up with a rattlesnake. At
least he gives you warning before
he strikes."

"Kill me!" Matt said desper-
ately. "Go ahead and kill me!"

Abbie smiled sweetly. "Killing's
too good for you. I don't know
anything that ain't too good for
you. But don't worry, I'll think of
something. Now, go away and
leave me alone."

rpHANKFULLY, Matt started
-*• to turn. Before he could com-
plete it, he found himself outside
the cabin. He blinked in the light
of the sinking sun. He began to
shiver. After a little he sat down
on the porch and lit a cigarette.
There had to be some way out of
this. There was always a way.

From inside the cabin came the
sound of running water. Running
water! Matt resisted an impulse
to get up and investigate the
mystery. "Leave me alone," Ab-
bie had said, in a tone that Matt
didn't care to challenge.

A few minutes later he heard
the sound of splashing and Ab-
bie's voice lifted in a sweet so-
prano. Although he couldn't un-
derstand the words, the tune sent
chills down his back. And then a
phrase came clear:

48

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Root-a-toot-toot

Three times she did shoot

Right through that hardwood

door.
He was her man,
But he done her wrong . . .

Matt began to shake. He passed
a trembling hand across his
sweaty forehead and wondered if
he had a fever. He tried to pull
himself together for he had to
think clearly. The situation was
obvious. He had done a fiendishly
cruel thing — no matter what the
excuse — and he had been caught
and the power of revenge was in
the hands of the one he had
wronged, never more completely.

The only question was: what
form would the revenge take?
When he knew that, he might be
able to figure out a way to evade
it. There was no question in his
mind about waiting meekly for
justice to strike.

The insurmountable difficulty
was that the moment he thought
of a plan, it would be unwork-
able because Abbie would be
forewarned. And she was already
armed. He had to stop thinking.

How do you stop thinking? he
thought miserably. Stop think-
ing! he told himself. Stop think-
ing, damn you!

He might be on the brink of
the perfect solution. But if he
thought of it, it would be worth-
less. And if he couldn't think of

it, then —

The circle was complete. He
was back where he started, star-
ing at its perfect viciousness.
There was only one possi —

Mary had a little Iamb with
fleece as white as snow and every-
where that Mary went (Relax!)
the lamb (Don't think!) was sure
(Act on the spur of the moment)
to go. Mary had a . . .

"Well, Mr. Wright, are you
ready to go?"

Matt started. Beside him were
a pair of black suede shoes filled
with small feet. His gaze traveled
up the lovely, nylon-sheathed
legs, up the clinging black dress
that swelled so provocatively, to
the face with its blue eyes and red
lips and blond hair.

Even in his pressing predica-
ment, Matt had to recognize the
impact of her beauty. It was a
pity that her other gifts were too
terrible.

"I reckon your fiancee won't
mind," Abbie said sweetly. "Be-
ing as you ain't got a fiancee. Are
you ready?"

"Ready?" Matt looked down at
his soiled work clothes. "For
what?"

"You're ready," Abbie said.

A WAVE of dizziness swept
him, followed by a wave of
nausea. Matt shut his eyes. They
receded. When he opened his eyes
again, he had a frightening sensa-

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

49

tion of disorientation. Then he
recognized his surroundings. He
was on the dance floor in Spring-
field.

Abbie came into his arms. "All
right," she said, "dance!"

Shocked, Matt began to dance,
mechanically. He realized that
people were staring at them as if
they had dropped through a hole
in the ceiling. Matt wasn't sure
they hadn't. Only two other
couples were on the small floor,
but they had stopped dancing and
were looking puzzled.

As Matt swung Abbie slowly
around he saw that the sprinkling
of customers at the bar had
turned to stare, too. A waiter in a
white jacket was coming toward
them, frowning determinedly.

Abbie seemed as unconcerned
about the commotion she had
caused as the rainbow-hued juke
box in the corner. It thumped
away just below Matt's conscious
level of recognition. Abbie danced
lightly in his arms.

The waiter tapped Matt on the
shoulder. Matt sighed with relief
and stopped dancing. Immediate-
ly he found himself moving jerk-
ily around the floor like a puppet.
Abbie, he gathered, did not care
to stop.

The waiter followed doggedly.
"Stop that!" he said bewilderedly.
"I don't know where you came
from or what you think you're
doing, but you can't do it in here

and you can't do it dressed like
that."

"I — I c-can-n't s-st-stop-p!"
Matt said jerkily.

"Sure you can," the waiter said
soothingly. He plodded along
after them. "There's lots of things
a man can't do, but he can always
stop whatever you're doing. I
should think you'd be glad to
stop."

"W-w-would," Matt got out.
"S-st-stop-p!" he whispered to
Abbie.

"Tell the man to go 'way,"
Abbie whispered back.

Matt decided to start dancing
again. It was easier than being
shaken to pieces. "I think you'd
better go away," he said to the
waiter.

"We don't like to use force," the
waiter said, frowning, "but we
have to keep up a standard for
our patrons. Come along quietly,"
he jerked on Matt's arm "or — "

The grip on Matt's arm was
suddenly gone. The waiter van-
ished. Matt looked around wildly.

The juke box had a new deco-
ration. Dazed, opaque-eyed, the
waiter squatted on top of the
box, his white jacket and whiter
face a dark fool's motley in the
swirling lights.

Abbie pressed herself close.
Matt shuddered and swung her
slowly around the floor. On the
next turn, he saw that the waiter
had climbed down from his perch.

50

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

He had recruited reinforcements.
Grim-faced and silent, the waiter
approached, followed by another
waiter, a lantern- jawed bartender,
and an ugly bulldog of a man in
street clothes. The manager, Matt
decided.

They formed a menacing ring
around Matt and Abbie.

"Whatever your game is,"
growled the bulldog, "we don't
want to play. If you don't leave
damn quick, you're going to wish
you had."

Matt, looking at him, believed
it. He tried to stop. Again his
limbs began to jerk uncontroll-
ably.

"I-I c-can-n't," he said. "D-d-
don't y-you th-think I-I w-would
if I-I c-could."

The manager stared at him
with large, awed, bloodshot eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "I guess you
would." He shook himself. His
jowls wobbled. "Okay, boys. Let's
get rid of them."

"Watch yourself," said the first
waiter uneasily. "One of them has
a trick throw."

They closed in. Matt felt Abbie
stiffen against him.

'T'HEY vanished, one after the
■*■ other, like candles being
snuffed. Matt glanced unhappily
at the juke box. There they were
on top of the box, stacked in
each other's laps like a totem
pole. The pile teetered and col-

lapsed in all directions. Dull
thuds made themselves heard
even above the juke box.

Matt saw them get up, puz-
zled and wary. The bartender
was rubbing his nose. He doubled
his fists and started to rush out
on the floor. The manager, a
wilier sort, grabbed his arm. The
four of them went into consulta-
tion. Every few seconds one of
them would raise his head and
stare at Matt and Abbie. Finally
the first waiter detached himself
from the group and with an air of
finality reached behind the juke
box. Abruptly the music stopped;
the colored lights went out. Sil-
ence fell. The four of them turned
triumphantly toward the floor.

Just as' abruptly, the lights
went back on; the music boomed
out again. They jumped.

Defiantly, the manager stepped
to the wall and pulled the plug
from the socket. He turned, still
holding the cord. It stirred in his
hand. The manager looked down
at it incredulously. It wriggled.
He dropped it hurriedly, with re-
vulsion. The plug rose cobralike
from its coils and began a slow,
deadly, weaving dance. The man-
ager stared, hypnotized with dis-
belief.

The cord struck. The manager
leaped back. The bared, metal
fangs bit into the floor. They
retreated, all four of them, watch-
ing with wide eyes. Contemptu-

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

51

ously, the cord turned its back
on them, wriggled its way to the
socket, and plugged itself in.

The music returned. Matt
danced on with leaden legs. He
could not stop. He would never
stop. He thought of the fairy tale
of the red shoes. Abbie seemed
as fresh and determined as ever.

As the juke box came into sight
again, Matt noticed some com-
motion around it. The bartender
was approaching the manager
with an axe, a glittering fire axe.
For one whirling moment, Matt
thought the whole world had gone
mad. Then he saw the manager
take the axe and approach the
juke box cautiously, the axe
poised in one hand ready to
strike.

He brought it down smartly.
The cord squirmed its coils out
of the way. The manager
wrenched the axe from the floor.
Bravely he advanced closer. He
looked down and screamed. The
cord had a loop around one leg;
the loop was tightening. Frantic-
ally the manager swung again and
again. One stroke hit the cord
squarely. It parted. The music
stopped. The box went dark. The
headless cord squirmed in dying
agonies.

Abbie stopped dancing. Matt
stood still, his legs trembling,
sighing with relief.

"Let's go, Abbie," he pleaded.
"Let's go quick."

She shook her head. "Let's sit."
She led him to a table which,
like the rest of the room, had
been suddenly vacated of patrons.
"I reckon you'd like a drink."

"I'd rather leave," Matt mut-
tered.

fT'HEY sat down. Imperiously,
-*- Abbie beckoned at the waiter.
He came toward the table cau-
tiously. Abbie looked inquiringly
at Matt.

"Bourbon," Matt said helpless-
ly. "Straight."

In a moment the waiter was
back with a bottle and two glasses
on a tray. "The boss said to get
the money first," he said timidly.

Matt searched his pockets fu-
tilely. He looked at the manager,
standing against one wall, glower-
ing, his arms folded across his
chest. "I haven't got any money
on me," Matt said.

"That's all right," Abbie said.
"Just set the things down."

"No, ma'am," the waiter began,
and his eyes rolled as the tray
floated out of his hand and set-
tled to the table. He stopped talk-
ing, shut his mouth, and backed
away.

Abbie was brooding, her chin
in one small hand. "I ain't been a
good daughter," she said. "Paw
would like it here."

"No, no," Matt said hurriedly.
"Don't do that. We've got enough
trouble — "

52

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Jenkins was sitting in the third
chair, blinking slowly, reeking of
alcohol. Matt reached for the bot-
tle and sloshed some into a glass.
He raised it to his lips and tossed
it off. The liquor burned his
throat for a moment and then was
gone. Matt waited expectantly as
he lowered the glass to the table.
He felt nothing, nothing at all.
He looked suspiciously at the
glass. It was still full.

Jenkins focused his eyes. "Ab!"
he said. He seemed to cringe in
his chair. "What you doin' here?
You look different. All fixed up.
Find a feller with money?"

Abbie ignored his questions. "If
I asked you to do somethin', Paw,
would you do it?"

"Sure, Ab," Jenkins said hur-
riedly. His eyes lit on the bottle
of bourbon. "Anything." He
raised the bottle to his lips. It
gurgled pleasantly and went on
gurgling.

Matt watched the level of am-
ber liquid drop in the bottle, but
when Jenkins put it down and
wiped his bearded lips with one
large hairy hand, the bottle was
half empty and stayed that way.
Jenkins sighed heavily.

Matt raised his glass again and
tilted it to his lips. When he low-
ered it, the glass was still full
and Matt was still empty. He
stared moodily at the glass.

"If I asked you to hit Mr.
Wright in the nose," Abbie"went

on, "I reckon you'd do it?"

Matt tensed himself.

"Sure, Ab, sure," Jenkins said.
He turned his massive head slow-
ly. He doubled his fist. The ex-
pression behind the beard was
unreadable, but Matt decided
that it was better that way. "Ain't
you been treatin' mah little gal
right?" Jenkins demanded. "Say,
son," he said with concern, "you
don't look so good." He looked
back at Abbie. "Want I should
hit him?"

"Not now," Abbie said. "But
keep it in mind."

Matt relaxed and seized the op-
portunity to dash the glass to his
mouth. Futilely. Not a drop of
liquor reached his stomach. Hope-
lessly, Matt thought of Tantalus.

"Police !"Jenkins bellowed sud-
denly, rising up with the neck of
the bottle in one huge hand. -

Matt looked. The bartender
was leading three policemen into
the front of the room. The officers
advanced stolidly, confident of
their ultimate strength and au-
thority. Matt turned quickly to
Abbie.

"No tricks," he pleaded. "Not
with the law."

Abbie yawned. "I'm tired. I
reckon it's almost midnight."

Jenkins charged, bull-like, bel-
lowing with rage. And the room
vanished.

Matt blinked, sickened. They
were back in the cabin. Abbie and

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

53

he. "What about your father?"
Matt asked.

"Next to liquor," Abbie said,
"Paw likes a fight best. I'm going
to bed now. I'm real tired."

She left her shoes on the floor,
climbed into her bunk, and pulled
the blanket around herself.

1%/f ATT walked slowly to his
•*■"-■■ bunk. Mary had a little
lamb . . . He sat down on it and
pulled off his shoes, letting them
thump to the floor . . . with fleece
as white as snow . . . He pulled
the blanket around his bunk and
made rustling sounds, but he
lay down without removing his
clothes . . . and everywhere that
Mary went . . . He lay stiffly,
listening to the immediate sounds
of deep breathing coming from
the other bunk . . . the lamb was
sure to go . . .

Two tortured hours crawled by.
Matt sat up cautiously. He picked
up his shoes from the floor. He
straightened up. Slowly he tip-
toed toward the door. Inch by
inch, listening to Abbie's steady
breathing, until he was at the
door. He slipped it open, only a
foot. He squeezed through and
drew it shut behind him.

A porch board creaked. Matt
froze. He waited. There was no
sound from inside. He crept over
the pebbles of the driveway, sup-
pressing exclamations of pain.
But he did not dare stop to put

on his shoes.

He was beside the car. He eased
the door open and slipped into the
seat. Blessing the steep driveway,
he released the brake and pushed
in the clutch. The car began to
roll. Slowly at first, then picking
up speed, the car turned out of
the driveway into the road.

Ghostlike in the brilliant moon,
it sped silent down the long hill.
After one harrowing tree-dark-
ened turn, Matt switched on the
lights and gently clicked the door
to its first catch.

When he was a mile away, he
started the motor.

Escape !

Tt/fATT pulled up to the gas
-*■" pump in the gray dawn that
was already sticky with heat.
Through the dusty, bug-splat-
tered windshield the bloodshot
sun peered at him and saw a dark
young man in stained work
clothes, his face stubbled blackly,
his eyes burning wearily. But
Matt breathed deep; he drew in
the wine of freedom.

Was this Fair Play or Humans-
ville? Matt was too tired and
hungry to remember. Whichever
it was, all was well.

It seemed a reasonable assump-
tion that Abbie could not find
him if she did not know where
he was, that she could not tele-
port herself anywhere she had not
already been. When she had dis-

54

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

appeared the first time, she had
gone to the places in Springfield
she knew. She had brought her
father from his two-room shanty.
She had taken him back to the
cabin.

The sleepy attendant ap-
proached, and with him came a
wash of apprehension to knot his
stomach. Money! He had no
money. Hopelessly he began to
search his pockets. Without
money he was stuck here, and all
his money was back in his cabin
with his clothes and his typewriter
and his manila folder of notes.

And then his hand touched
something in his hip pocket.
Wonderingly, he pulled it out. It
was his billfold. He peered at its
contents. Four dollars in bills and
three hundred in travelers' checks.
"Fill it up," he said.

When had he picked up the
billfold? Or had he had it all
the time? He could have sworn
that he had not had it when he
was in the cocktail lounge in
Springfield. He was almost sure
that he had left it in his suit
pants. The uncertainty made him
vaguely uneasy. Or was it only
hunger? He hadn't eaten since
toying with Abbie's stolen deli-
cacies yesterday afternoon.

"Where's a good place to eat?"
he asked, as the attendant handed
him change.

It was an old fellow in cover-
alls. He pointed a few hundred

feet up the road. "See those
trucks parked outside that
diner?" Matt nodded. "Usual
thing, when you see them out-
side, you can depend on good
food inside. Here it don't mean a
thing. Food's lousy. We got a
landmark though. Truckers stop
to see it." The old fellow cackled.
"Name's Lola."

As Matt pulled away, the old
man called after him. "Don't
make no difference, anyway. No
place else open."

Matt parked beside one of the
large trailer trucks. Lola? He
made a wry face as he got out
of the car. He was through with
women.

The diner, built in the shape of
a railroad car, had a long counter
running along one side, but it was
filled with truckers in shirt
sleeves, big men drinking coffee
and smoking and teasing the
waitress. Tiredly, Matt slipped
into one of the empty booths.

The waitress detached herself
from her admirers immediately
and came to the booth with a
glass of water in one hand, swing-
ing her hips confidently. She had
a smoldering, dark beauty, and
she was well aware of it. Her
black hair was cut short, and her
brown eyes and tanned face were
smiling. Her skirt and low-cut
peasant blouse bulged generously
in the right places. Some time —
and not too many years in the

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

55

future — she would be fat, but
right now she was lush, ready to
be picked by the right hand.
Matt guessed that she would not
be a waitress in a small town
long. As she put the water on
the table, she bent low to demon-
strate just how lush she was.

The neckline drooped. Against
his will, Matt's eyes drifted to-
ward her.

"What'll you have?" the wait-
ress said softly.

Matt swallowed. "A couple of
— hotcakes," he said, "with sau-
sages."

She straightened up slowly,
smiling brightly at him. "Stack a
pair," she yelled, "with links."
She turned around and looked
enticingly over her shoulder.
"Coffee?"

Matt nodded. He smiled a
little to show that he appreciated
her attentions. There was no
doubt about the fact that she was
an attractive girl. In anyone's
mind. Any other time . . .

^O UCH! " she said suddenl y

^-^ and straightened. She be-
gan to rub her rounded bottom
vigorously and cast Matt a hurt,
reproachful glance. Slowly her
pained expression changed to a
roguish smile. She waggled a
coy finger at Matt. "Naughty,
naughty!" the finger said. Matt
stared at her as if she had lost
her senses. He shook his head in

bewilderment as she vanished be-
hind the counter. And then he
noticed that a couple of the
truckers had turned around to
glower at him, and Matt became
absorbed in contemplating the
glass of water.

It made him realize how thirsty
he was. He drank the whole
glassful, but it didn't seem to
help much. He was just as thirsty,
just as empty.

Lola wasted no time in bring-
ing Matt's cup of coffee. She car-
ried it casually and efficiently in
one hand, not spilling a drop into
the saucer. But as she neared
Matt the inexplicable happened.
She tripped over something in-
visible on the smooth floor. She
stumbled. The coffee flew in a
steaming arc and splashed on
Matt's shirt with incredible ac-
curacy, soaking in hotly.

Lola gasped, her hand to her
mouth. Matt leaped up, pulling
his shirt away from his chest,
swearing. Lola grabbed a handful
of paper napkins and began to
dab at his shirt.

"Golly, honey, I'm sorry," she
said warmly. "I can't understand
how I came to trip."

She pressed herself close to
him. Matt could smell the odor
of gardenias.

"That's all right," he said,
drawing back. "It was an acci-
dent."

She followed him up, working

56

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

at his shirt. Matt noticed that the
truckers were all watching, some
darkly, the rest enviously. He
slipped back into the booth.

One of the truckers guffawed.
"You don't have to spill coffee
on me, Lola, to make me steam,"
he said. The rest of the truckers
laughed with him.

"Oh, shut up!" Lola told them.
She turned back to Matt. "You
all right, honey?"

"Sure, sure," Matt said wearily.
"Just bring me the hotcakes."
The coffee had cooled now. His
shirt felt clammy. Matt thought
about accident prones. It had to
be an accident. He glanced un-
easily around the diner. The only
girl here was Lola.

The hotcakes were ready. She
was bringing them toward the
booth, but it was not a simple
process. Matt had never seen slip-
pery hotcakes before this. Lola
was so busy that she forgot to
swing her hips.

The hotcakes slithered from
side to side on the plate. Lola
juggled them, tilting the plate
back and forth to keep them from
sliding off. Her eyes were wide
with astonishment; her mouth
was a round, red "O"; her fore-
head was furrowed with concen-
tration. She did an intricate,
unconscious dance step to keep
from losing the top hotcake.

As Matt watched, fascinated,
the sausages, four of them linked

together, started to slip from the
plate. With something approach-
ing sentience, they skilled off and
disappeared down the low neck
of Lola's blouse.

Lola shrieked. She started to
wriggle, her shoulders hunched.
While she tried to balance the
hotcakes with one hand, the
other dived into the blouse and
hunted around frantically. Matt
watched; the truckers watched.
Lola hunted and wiggled. The
hand that held the plate flew up.
The hotcakes scattered.

One hit the nearest trucker in
the face. He peeled it off, red and
bellowing. "A joker!" He dived
off the stool toward Matt.

T1/|ATT tried to get up, but the
-'■"•*■ table caught him in his
stomach. He climbed up on the
seat. The hotcake the trucker had
discarded had landed on the head
of the man next to him. He stood
up angrily.

Lola had finally located the
elusive sausages. She drew them
out of their intimate hiding place
with a shout of triumph. They
whipped into the open mouth of
the lunging trucker. He stopped,
transfixed, strangling.

"Argh-gh-uggle!" he said.

A cup crashed against the wall,
close to Matt's head. Matt
ducked. If he could get over the
back of this booth, he could
reach the door. The place was

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

57

filled with angry shouts and
angrier faces and bulky shoul-
ders approaching. Lola took one
frightened loolf and grabbed
Matt around the knees.

"Protect me!" she said wildly.

The air was filled with missiles.
Matt reached down to disengage
Lola's fear-strengthened arms. He
glanced up to see the trucker
spitting out the last of the sau-
sages. With a maddened yell, the
trucker threw a heavy fist at
Matt. Hampered as he was, Matt
threw himself back hopelessly.
Something ripped. The fist
breezed past and crashed through
a window.

Matt hung over the back of the
booth, head downward, unable to
get back up, unable to shake
Lola loose. Everywhere he looked
he could see rage-enflamed faces.
He closed his eyes and surrend-
ered himself to his fate.

From somewhere, above the
tumult, came the sound of
laughter, like the tinkling of little
silver bells.

Then Matt was outside with no
idea of how he had got there.
In his hand was a strip of thin
fabric. Lola's blouse. Poor Lola,
he thought, as he threw it away.
What was his fatal fascination
for girls?

Behind him the diner was alive
with lights and the crash of
dishes and the smacking of fists
on flesh. Before long they would

discover that he was gone.

Matt ran to his car. It started
to life when he punched the but-
ton. He backed it up, screeched it
to a stop, jerked into first, and
barreled onto the highway. With-
in twenty seconds, he was doing
sixty.

He turned to look back at the
diner and almost lost control of
the car as he tried to absorb the
implications of the contents on
the back seat.

Resting neatly there were his
typewriter, notes, and all his
clothes.

WHEN Matt pulled to a stop
on the streets of Clinton, he
was feeling easier mentally and
much worse physically. The dip
in a secluded stream near the
road, the change of clothes, and
the shave — torturing as it had
been in cold water — had refreshed
him for a while. But that had
worn off, and the lack of a
night's sleep and twenty-four
hours without food were catch-
ing up with him.

Better that, he thought grimly,
than Abbie. He could endure
anything for a time.

As for the typewriter and the
notes and the clothes, there was
probably some simple explana-
tion. The one Matt liked best was
that Abbie had had a change of
heart; she had expected him to
leave and she had made his way

58

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

easy. She was, Matt thought, a
kind-hearted child underneath it
all.

The trouble with that explana-
tion was that Matt didn't believe
it.

He shrugged. There were more
pressing things — money, for in-
stance. Gas was getting low, and
he needed to get something in his
stomach if he was to keep up
his strength for the long drive
ahead. He had to cash one of his
checks. That seemed simple
enough. The bank was at the
corner of this block. It was eleven
o'clock. The bank would be open.
Naturally they would cash a
check.

But for some reason Matt felt
uneasy.

Matt walked into the bank and
went directly to a window. He
countersigned one of the checks
and presented it to the teller, a
thin little man with a wispy mus-
tache and a bald spot on top of
his head. The teller compared the
signatures and turned to the shelf
at his side where bills stood in
piles, some still wrapped. He
counted out four twenties, a ten, a
five, and five ones.

"Here you are, sir," he said
politely.

Matt accepted it only because
his hand was outstretched and
the teller put the money in it. His
eyes were fixed in horror upon
a wrapped bundle of twenty dol-

lar bills which was slowly rising
from the shelf. It climbed leis-
urely over the top of the cage.

"What's the matter, sir?" the
teller asked in alarm. "Do you
feel sick?"

Matt nodded once and then
tore his eyes away and shook his
head vigorously. "No," he gasped.
"I'm all right." He took a step
back from the window.

"Are you sure? You don't look
well at all."

WITH a shrinking feeling,
Matt felt something fumble
its way into his right hand coat
pocket. He plunged his hand in
after it. His empty stomach re-
volved in his abdomen. He could
not mistake the touch of crisp
paper. He stooped quickly be-
neath the teller's window. The
teller leaned out. Matt straight-
ened up, the package of bills in
his hand.

"I guess you must have
dropped this," he muttered.

The teller glanced at the shelf
and back at the sheaf of twenties.
"I don't see how — But thank you!
That's the funniest — "

Matt pushed the bills under the
grillwork. "Yes, isn't it," he
agreed hurriedly. "Well, thank
you."

"Thank you!"

Matt lifted his hand. The
money lifted with it. The pack-
age stuck to his hand as if it

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

59

had been attached with glue.

"Excuse me," he said feebly. "I
can't seem to get rid of this
money." He shook his hand. The
money clung stubbornly. He
shook his hand again, violently.
The package of bills did not
budge.

"Very funny," the teller said,
but he was not smiling. From
his tone of voice, Matt suspected
that he thought money was a
very serious business indeed. The
teller reached under the bars and
caught hold of one end of the
package. "You can let go now,"
he said. "Let go!"

Matt tried to pull his hand
away. "I can't!" he said, breath-
ing heavily.

The teller tugged, Matt tugged.
"I haven't time to play games,"
the teller panted. "Let go!"

"I don't want it," Matt said
frantically. "But it seems to be
stuck. Look!" He showed his
hand, fingers spread wide.

The teller grabbed the bundle
of bills with both hands and
braced his feet against the front
of his cubicle. "Let go!" he
shouted.

Matt pulled hard. Suddenly
the tension on his arm vanished.
His arm whipped back. The teller
disappeared into the bottom of
the cubicle. Something clanged
hollowly. Matt looked at his
hand. The bills were gone.

Slowly the teller's head ap-

peared from the concealed part
of the cubicle. It came up, ac-
companied by groans, with a red
swelling in the middle of the bald
spot. After it came the teller's
hand, waving the package of
twenties triumphantly. The other
hand was rubbing his head.

"Are you still here?" he de-
manded, slamming the bills down
at his side. "Get out of this bank.
And if you ever come back I'll
have you arrested for — for dis-
turbing the peace."

"Don't worry," Matt said. "I
won't be back." His face sud-
denly grew pale. "Stop" he said
frantically, waving his arms. "Go
back!"

The teller stared at him, fear-
fully, indecisively.

rjlHE bundle of twenties was
-*- rising over the top of the
cage again. Instinctively, Matt
grabbed them out of the air. His
mind clicked rapidly. If he was
to keep out of jail, there was only
one thing to do. He advanced on
the teller angrily, waving the bills
in the air.

"What do you mean by throw-
ing these at me!"

"Throwing money?" the teller
said weakly. "Me?"

Matt shook the bills in front of
the teller's nose. "What do you
call this?"

The clerk glanced at the money
and down at his side. "Oh, no!"

60

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

he moaned.

"I have a good mind," Matt
said violently, "to complain to
the president of this bank." He
slammed the bills down. He
closed his eyes in a silent
prayer "Tellers throwing money
around!"

He took his hand away. Bliss-
fully, the money stayed where it
was on the counter. The teller
reached for it feebly. The pack-
age shifted. He reached again.
The bills slid away. He stuck both
hands through the slot and
groped wildly. The money slipped
between his arms into the cage.

Matt stood shifting his weight
from foot to foot, paralyzed be-
tween flight and fascination. The
bundle winged its way around in
the cage like a drunken butterfly.
Wide-eyed and frantic, the teller
chased it from side to side. He
made great diving swoops for it,
his hands cupped into a net. He
crept up on it and pounced, cat-
like, only to have to slip between
his fingers at the last moment.
Suddenly he stopped, frozen. His
hands flew to his head.

"My God!" he screamed.
"What am I doing? I'm mad!"

Matt backed toward the door.
The other clerks and tellers were
running toward the center of the
disturbance. Matt saw a dignified
gentleman with a paunch stand
up inside a railed-in office and
hurdle the obstacle with fine

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

61

show of athletic form.

Matt turned and ran, dodging
the guard at the gate. "Get the
doctor," he yelled.

From somewhere came the
sound of a tinkling of little silver
bells.

There was no doubt in Matt's
mind as he gunned his car out
of Clinton. Abbie was after him.
He had not been free a moment.
All the time she had known where
to find him. He was the fleeing
mouse, happy in his illusion of
freedom — until the cat's paw
comes down on his back. Matt
thought of the Furies — awful
Alecto, Tisiphone, Megaera — in
their blood-stained robes and
serpent hair pursuing him across
the world with their terrible
whips. But they all had Abbie's
face.

Matt drove north toward Kan-
sas City, thirsty, starving, half
dead from fatigue, wondering
hopelessly where it would end.

r|ARKENING shades of violet
-'-' were creeping up the eastern
sky as Matt reached Lawrence,
Kansas. He had not tried to stop
in Kansas City. Something had
drawn him on, some buried hope
that still survived feebly, and
when, five miles from Lawrence,
he had seen Mount Oread rise
against the sunset, the white
spires and red tile roofs of the
university gleaming like beacons.

he had known what it was.

Here was a citadel of knowl-
edge, a fortress of the world's
truth against black waves of igno-
rance and superstition. Here, in
this saner atmosphere of study
and reflection, logic and cool
consideration, here, if anywhere,
he could shake off this dark con-
viction of doom that sapped his
will. Here, surely, he could think
more clearly, act more decisively,
rid himself of this demon of
vengeance that rode his shoulders.
Here he could get help.

He drove down Massachusetts
Street, his body leaden with fa-
tigue, his eyes red-rimmed and
shadowed searching restlessly
from side to side. His hunger was
only a dull ache; he could almost
forget it. But his thirst was a live
thing. Somewhere — he could not
remember where — he had eaten
and drunk, but they had vanished
from his throat as he swallowed.

Is there no end? he thought
wildly. Is there no way out?
There was, of course. There al-
ways is. Always — Mary had a
tittle lamb . . .

Impulse swung his car into the
diagonal parking space. First he
was going to drink and eat,
come what may. He walked into
the restaurant. Summer students
filled the room, young men in
sport shirts and slacks, girls in
gay cotton prints and saddle
shoes, laughing, talking, eating . . .

62

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Swaying in the doorway, Matt
watched them, bleary-eyed. Once
I was like them, he thought dully.
Young and alive and conscious
that these were the best years I
would ever know. Now I am old
and used up, doomed . . .

He slumped down at a table
near the front, filled with a great
surge of sorrow that all happiness
was behind him. He was con-
scious that the waitress was be-
side him. "Soup," he mumbled.
"Soup and milk." He did not look
up.

"Yes, sir," she said. Her voice
sounded vaguely familiar, but
they are all the same, all the
voices of youth. He had eaten
here before. He did not look up.

Slowly he raised the glass of
water to his lips. It went down his
throat in dusty gulps. It spread
out in his stomach in cool, blessed
waves. Matt closed his eyes
thankfully. The hunger pains be-
gan to return. For a moment
Matt regretted the soup and
wished he had ordered steak.

After the soup, he thought.

The soup came. Matt lifted a
spoonful. He let it trickle down
his throat.

"Feelin' better, Mr. Wright,"
said the waitress.

"It/JATT looked up. He strangled.
■L" It was Abbie! Abbie's face
bending over him. Matt choked
and spluttered. Students turned

to stare. Matt gazed around the
room wildly. The girls — they all
looked like Abbie. He stood up,
almost knocking over the table
as he ran to the front door.

With his hand on the door
knob, he stopped, paralyzed.
Staring in at him, through the
glass, was a pair of bloodshot
eyes set above an unruly black
nest. Stooped, powerful shoulders
loomed behind the face. As Matt
stared back, the eyes lighted up
as if they recognized him.

"Argh-gh!" Matt screamed.

He staggered back and turned
on trembling legs. He tottered
toward the back of the restau-
rant. The aisle seemed full of feet
put out to trip him. He stumbled
to the swinging kitchen door and
broke through into odors of fry-
ing and baking that no longer
moved him.

The cook looked up, startled.
Matt ran on through the kitchen
and plunged through the back
door. The alley was dark. Matt
barked his shins on a box. He
limped on, cursing. At one end of
the alley a street light spread a
pool of welcome. Matt ran toward
it. He was panting. His heart beat
fast. Then it almost stopped. A
shadow lay along the mouth of
the alley. A long shadow with
huge shoulders and something
that waved from the chin.

Matt spun. He ran frantically
toward the other end of the alley.

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

63

His mind raced like an engine
that has broken its governor.
Nightmarish terror streaked
through his arms and legs; they
seemed distant and leaden. But
slowly he approached the other
end. He came nearer. Nearer.

A shadow detached itself from
the dark back walls. But it was
no shadow. Matt slowed, stopped.
The shadow came closer, tower-
ing tall above him. Matt cowered,
unable to move. Closer. Two long
arms reached out toward him.
Matt quivered. He waited for the
end. The arms wrapped around
him. They drew him close.

"Son, son," Jenkins said weak-
ly. "Yore the first familiar face
I seen all day."

Matt's heart started beating
again. He drew back, extracting
his face from Jenkin's redolent
beard.

"Cain't understand what's go-
in' on these days," Jenkins said
shaking his head sadly, "but I
got a feelin' Ab's behint it. Just
as that fight got goin' good, the
whole shebang disappeared and
here I was. Where am I, son?"

"Kansas," Matt said. "Law-
rence, Kansas."

"Kansas?" Jenkins wobbled his
beard. "Last I heard, Kansas was
dry, but it can't be half as dry
as I am. I recollect hearin' Quan-
trell burned this town. Too bad it
didn't stay burned. Here I was
without a penny in my pocket

and only what was left in the
bottle I had in my hand to keep
me from dyin' of thirst. Son," he
said sorrowfully, "somethin's got
to be done. It's Ab, ain't it?"

Matt nodded.

"Son," Jenkins went on, "I'm
gettin' too old for this kind of
life. I should be sittin' on my
porch with a jug in my lap, just
a-rockin' slow. Somethin's got to
be done about that gal."

"I'm afraid it's too late for
that," Matt said.

"That's the trouble," Jenkins
said mournfully. "Been too late
for these six years. Son, yore an
edyicated man. What we gonna
do?"

"I can't tell you, Jenkins,"
Matt said. "I can't even think
about it." Mary had a little lamb
. . . "If I did, it wouldn't work.
But if you want to hit me, go
ahead. I'm the man who's re-
sponsible."

Jenkins put a large hand on his
shoulder. "Don't worry about it,
son. If it weren't you, it would've
been some other man. When Ab
gets a notion, you cain't beat it
out of her. I learned that years
ago.

Matt pulled out his billfold and
handed Jenkins a five dollar bill.
"Here. Kansas isn't dry any more.
Go get something and try to for-
get. Maybe when you're finished
with that, things will have
changed."

64

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"Yore a good boy, son. Don't
do nothin' rash."

Mary had a little lamb . . .

JENKINS turned, raising his
hand in a parting salute. Matt
watched the mountainous shadow
dwindle, as if it was his last con-
tact with the living. Then Jen-
kins rounded the corner and was
out of sight.

Matt walked slowly back to
Massachusetts Street. There was
one more thing he had to do.

As he reached the car, Matt
sensed Abbie's nearness. The
awareness was so sharp that it
was almost physical. He felt her
all around, like dancing motes of
dust that are only visible under
certain conditions, half angel, half
devil, half love, half hate. It was
an unendurable mixture, an im-
possible combination to live with.
The extremes were too great.

Matt sighed. It was not Abbie's
fault. If it was anyone's fault,
it was his. -Inevitably, he would
pay for it. The Universe has an
immutable law of action and re-
action.

It was dark as Matt drove
along Seventh Street. The night
was warm, and the infrequent
street lights were only beacons
for nightflying insects. Matt
turned a corner and pulled up in
front of a big old house sur-
rounded by an ornamental iron
fence. The house was a two-

story stucco, painted yellow — or
perhaps it had once been white —
and the fence sagged in places.

Most of the houses in Lawrence
are old. The finest and the new-
est are in the west, on the ridge
overlooking the Wakarusa Valley,
but university professors cannot
afford such sites or such houses.

Matt rang the bell. In a mo-
ment the door opened. Blinking
out of the light was Professor
Franklin, his faculty adviser.

"Matt!" Franklin said. "I didn't
recognize you for a second. What
are you doing back so soon? I
thought you were secluded in the
Ozarks. Don't tell me you have
your thesis finished already?"

"No, Dr. Franklin," Matt said
wearily, "but I'd like to talk to
you for a moment if you can
spare the time."

"Come in, come in. I'm just
grading some papers." Franklin
grimaced. "Freshman papers."

Franklin led the way into his
book-cluttered study off the living
room. His glasses were resting on
top of a pile of papers. He picked
them up, slipped them on, and
turned to Matt. He was a tall
man, a little stooped now in his
sixties, with gray, unruly hair.

"Matt!" he exclaimed. "You
aren't looking well. Have you
been sick?"

"In a way," Matt said, "you
might call it that. How would
you treat someone who believes

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

65

in the reality of psychic phe-
nomena?"

Franklin shrugged. "Lots of
people believe in it and are still
worthwhile, reliable members of
society. Conan Doyle, for in-
stance — "

"And could prove it," Matt
added.

"Hallucinations? Then it be-
comes more serious. I suppose
psychiatric treatment would be
necessary. Remember, Matt, I'm
a teacher, not a practitioner. But
look here, you aren't suggesting
that—?"

Matt nodded. "I can prove it,
and I don't want to. Would it
make the world any better, any
happier?"

"The truth is always important
— for itself if for nothing else.
But you can't be serious — "

"Dead serious." Matt shivered.
"Suppose I could prove that there
were actually such things as levi-
tation, teleportation, telepathy.
There isn't any treatment, is
there, Professor, when a man goes
sane?"

"Matt! You are sick, aren't
you?"

"Suppose," Matt went on re-
lentlessly, "that your glasses
should float over and come to
rest on my nose. What would you
say then?"

"I'd say you need to see a
psychiatrist," Franklin said wor-
riedly. "You do, Matt."

TTIS glasses gently detached
-"•■*- themselves and floated leis-
urely through the air and ad-
justed themselves on Matt's face.
Franklin stared blindly.

"Matt!" he exclaimed, groping.
"That isn't very funny."

Matt sighed and handed the
glasses back. Franklin put them
back on, frowning.

"Suppose," Matt said, "I
should float in the air?" As he
spoke, he felt himself lifting.

Franklin looked up. "Come
down here!"

Matt came back into his chair.

"These tricks," Franklin said
sternly, "aren't very seemly. Go
to a doctor, Matt. Don't waste
any time. And," he added, taking
off his glasses and polishing them
vigorously, "I think I'll see my
oculist in the morning."

Matt sighed again. "I was
afraid that was the way it would
be. Abbie?"

Franklin stared.

"Yes, Mr. Wright." The words,
soft and gentle, came out of mid-
air.

Franklin's eyes searched the
room frantically.

"Thanks," Matt said.

"Leave this house!" Franklin
said, his voice trembling. "I've
had enough of these pranks!"

Matt got up and went to the
front door. "I'm afraid Dr.
Franklin doesn't believe in you.
But I do. Good-by, Dr. Franklin.

66

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

I don't think a doctor would cure
what I've got."

When he left, Franklin was
searching the living room.

rriHERE was something strange-
-*■ ly final about the drive
through the campus. Along
Oread street on top of Mount
Oread, overlooking the Kaw Val-
ley on the north and the Wa-
karusa on the south, the uni-
versity buildings stood dark and
deserted. Only the Student Union
was lighted and the library and
an occasional bulletin board. The
long arms of the administration
building were gloomy, and the
night surrounded the white arches
of Hoch Auditorium . . .

He pulled into the parking area
behind the apartment building
and got out and walked slowly
to the entrance. He hoped that
Guy wouldn't be in.

Matt opened the door. The
apartment was empty. He turned
on a living room lamp. The room
was in typical disarray. A sweater
on the davenport, books in the
chair.

In the dark, Matt went to the
kitchen. He bumped into the
stove and swore, and rubbed his
hip. Mary had a little lathb . . .
Somewhere around here . . .

Some hidden strength kept
Matt from dropping in his tracks.
He should have collapsed from
exhaustion and hunger long ago.

But soon there would be time to
rest . . . and everywhere that
Mary went . . . He stooped. There
it was. The sugar. The sugar. He
had always liked blue sugar.

He found a package of cereal
and got the milk from the re-
frigerator. He found a sharp knife
in the drawer and sliced the box
in two. He dumped the contents
into a bowl and poured the milk
over it and sprinkled the sugar
on top. The blue sugar . . . with
fleece as white as snow . . . He
was very sleepy.

He lifted a spoonful of the
cereal to his mouth. He chewed
it for a moment. He swallowed . . .

And it was gone.

He grabbed the knife and
plunged it toward his chest.

And his hand was empty.

He was very sleepy. His head
drooped. Suddenly it straightened
up. The hissing had stopped. A
long time ago. He turned on the
light and saw that the burner was
turned off, the one that never
lighted from the pilot, the one he
had stumbled against.

The blue insect poison had
failed and the knife and the gas.

He felt a great wave of despair.
It was no use. There was no way
out.

TTE walked back to the living
*■*■ room, brushed the sweater off
the davenport, and sat down. The
last hope — beyond which there is

WHEREVER YOU MAY BE

67

no hope — was gone. And yet, in a
way, he was glad that his tricks
had not worked. Not that he was
still alive but because it had been
the coward's way. All along he
had been trying to dodge the only
solution that faced him at every
turn. He had refused to recognize
it, but now there was no other
choice.

It was the hard way, the bitter
way. The way that was not a
quick death but a slow one. But
he owed it to the world to sacri-
fice himself on the altar he
had raised, under the knife he had
honed, wielded by the arm that
he had given strength and skill
and* consciousness.

He looked up. "All right, Ab-
bie," he sighed. "I'll marry you."

The words hung in the air.
Matt waited, filled with a fear
that was half hope.

Was it too late for anything but
vengeance?

But Abbie filled his arms, cud-
dled against him in homely blue
gingham, scarcely bigger than a
child but with the warmth and
softness of a woman. She was
more beautiful than Matt had re-
membered. Her arms crept
around his neck.

"Will you, Mr. Wright?" she
whispered. "Will you?"

A vision built itself up in his
mind. The omniscient, omnipo-
tent wife, fearsome when her pow-
ers were sheathed, terrible in

anger or disappointment. No man,
he thought, was ever called upon
for greater sacrifice. But he was
the appointed lamb.

He sighed. "God help me," he
said, "I will."

He kissed her. Her lips were
sweet and passionate.

MATTHEW Wright was lucky,
of course, far luckier than he
deserved to be, than any man
deserves to be.

The bride was beautiful. But
more important and much more
significant —

The bride was happy.

—JAMES E. GUNN

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68

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

SPECIALIST

By ROBERT SHECKLEY

THE photon storm struck
without warning, pouncing
upon the Ship from behind
a bank of giant red stars. Eye
barely had time to flash a last
second warning through Talker
before it was upon them.

It was Talker's third journey
into deep space, and his first
light-pressure storm. He felt a
sudden pang of fear as the Ship
yawed violently, caught the force
of the wave-front and careened
end for end. Then the fear was
gone, replaced by a strong pulse
of excitement.

Why should he be afraid, he
asked himself — hadn't he been

Illustrated by CALLE

Recruiting all the parts of a

ship works great unless you

suddenly run out of recruits!

SPECIALIST

69

trained for just this sort of emer-
gency?

He had been talking to Feeder
when the storm hit, but he cut
off the conversation abruptly. He
hoped Feeder would be all right.
It was the youngster's first deep
space trip.

The wirelike filaments that
made up most of Talker's body
were extended throughout the
Ship. Quickly he withdrew all
except the ones linking him to
Eye, Engine, and the Walls. This
was strictly their job now. The
rest of the Crew would have to
shift for themselves until the
storm was over.

Eye had flattened his disklike
body against a Wall, and had
one seeing organ extended out-
side the Ship. For greater con-
centration, the rest of his seeing
organs were collapsed, clustered
against his body.

Through Eye's seeing organ,
Talker watched the storm. He
translated Eye's purely visual
image into a direction for Engine,
who shoved the Ship around to
meet the waves. At appreciably
the same time, Talker translated
direction into velocity for the
Walls, who stiffened to meet the
shocks.

The coordination was swift
and sure — Eye measuring the
waves, Talker relaying the mes-
sages to Engine and Walls, En-
gine driving the ship nose -first

into the waves, and Walls brac-
ing to meet the shock.

Talker forgot any fear he
might have had in the swiftly
functioning teamwork. He had
no time to think. As the Ship's
communication system, he had to
translate- and flash his messages
at top speed, coordinating in-
formation and directing action.

In a matter of minutes, the
storm was over.

"ALL right," Talker said.
-'"- Let's see if there was any
damage." His filaments had be-
come tangled during the storm,
but he untwisted and extended
them through the Ship, plugging
everyone into circuit. "Engine?"

"I'm fine," Engine said. The
tremendous old fellow had dam-
pened his plates during the storm,
easing down the atomic explo-
sions in his stomach. No storm
could catch an experienced spac-
er like Engine unaware.

"Walls?"

The Walls reported one by
one, and this took a long time.
There were almost a thousand
of them, thin, rectangular fellows
making up the entire skin of the
Ship. Naturally, they had rein-
forced their edges during the
storm, giving the whole Ship re-
siliency. But one or two were
dented badly.

Doctor announced that he was
all right. He removed Talker's

70

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

filament from his head, taking
himself out of circuit, and went
to work on the dented Walls.
Made mostly of hands, Doctor
had clung to an Accumulator
during the storm.

"Let's go a little faster now,"
Talker said, remembering that
there still was the problem of
determining where they were. He
opened the circuit to the four
Accumulators. "How are you?"
he asked.

There was no answer. The Ac-
cumulators were asleep. They
had had their receptors open
during the storm and were bloat-
ed on energy. Talker twitched
his filaments around them, but
they didn't stir.

"Let me," Feeder said. Feeder
had taken quite a beating before
planting his suction cups to a
Wall, but his cockiness was in-
tact. He was the only member
of the Crew who never needed
Doctor's attention; his body was
quite capable of repairing itself.

He scuttled across the floor on
a dozen or so tentacles, and
booted the nearest Accumulator.
The big, conial storage unit
opened one eye, then closed it
again. Feeder kicked him again,
getting no response. He reached
for the Accumulator's safety
valve and drained off some en-
ergy.

"Stop that," the Accumulator
said.

"Then wake up and report,"
Talker told him.

The Accumulators said testily
that they were all right, as any
fool could see. They had been
anchored to the floor during the
storm.

'TtHE rest of the inspection went
-*■ quickly. Thinker was fine,
and Eye was ecstatic over the
beauty of the storm. There was
only one casualty.

Pusher was dead. Bipedal, he
didn't have the stability of the
rest of the Crew. The storm had
caught him in the middle of a
floor, thrown him against a stif-
fened Wall, and broken several
of his important bones. He was
beyond Doctor's skill to repair.

They were silent for a while.
It was always serious when a
part of the Ship died. The Ship
was a cooperative unit, com-
posed entirely of the Crew. The
loss of any member was a blow
to all the rest.

It was especially serious now.
They had just delivered a cargo
to a port several thousand light-
years from Galactic Center.
There was no telling where they
might be.

Eye crawled to a Wall and ex-
tended a seeing organ outside.
The Walls let it through, then
sealed around it. Eye's organ
pushed out, far enough from the
Ship so he could view the entire

SPECIALIST

7T

sphere of stars. The picture trav-
eled through Talker, who gave
it to Thinker.

Thinker lay in one corner of
the room, a great shapeless blob
of protoplasm. Within him were
all the memories of his space -
going ancestors. He considered
the picture, compared it rapidly
with others stored in his cells,
and said, "No galactic planets
within reach."

Talker automatically trans-
lated for everyone. It was what
they had feared.

Eye, with Thinker's help, cal-
culated that they were several
hundred light-years off their
course, on the galactic periphery.

Every Crew member knew
what that meant. Without a
Pusher to boost the Ship to a
multiple of the speed of light,
they would never get home. The
trip back, without a Pusher,
would take longer than most of
their lifetimes.

"What would you suggest?"
Talker asked Thinker.

This was too vague a question
for the literal-minded Thinker.
He asked to have it rephrased.

"What would be our best line
of action," Talker asked, "to get
back to a galactic planet?"

Thinker needed several min-
utes to go through all the possi-
bilities stored in his cells. In the
meantime, Doctor had patched
the Walls and was asking to be

given something to eat.

"In a little while we'll all eat,"
Talker said, twitching his ten-
drils nervously. Even though he
was the second youngest Crew
member — only Feeder was
younger — the responsibility was
largely on him. This was still an
emergency; he had to coordinate
information and direct action.

ONE of the Falls suggested
that they get good and
drunk. This unrealistic solution
was vetoed at once. It was typi-
cal of the Walls' attitude, how-
ever. They were fine workers and
good shipmates, but happy-go-
lucky fellows at best. When they
returned to their home planets,
they would probably blow all
their wages on a spree.

"Loss of Ship's Pusher cripples
the Ship for sustained faster-
than-light speeds," Thinker be-
gan without preamble. "The
nearest galactic planet is four
hundred and five light-years off."

Talker translated all this in-
stantly along his wave-packet
body.

"Two courses of action are
open. First, the Ship can proceed
to the nearest galactic planet un-
der atomic power from Engine.
This will take approximately
two hundred years. Engine might
still be alive at this time, al-
though no one else will.

"Second, locate a primitive

72

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

planet in this region, upon which
are latent Pushers. Find one and
train him. Have him push the
Ship back to galactic territory."

Thinker was silent, having
given all the possibilities he could
find in the memories of his an-
cestors.

They held a quick vote and
decided upon Thinker's second
alternative. There was no choice,
really. It was the only one which
offered them any hope of getting
back to their homes.

"All right," Talker said. "Let's
eat. I think we all deserve it."

The body of the dead Pusher
was shoved into the mouth of
Engine, who consumed it at once,
breaking down the atoms to en-
ergy. Engine was the only mem-
ber of the Crew who lived on
atomic energy.

For the rest, Feeder dashed up
and loaded himself from the
nearest Accumulator. Then he
transformed the food within him
into the substances each member
ate. His body chemistry changed,
altered, adapted, making the dif-
ferent foods for the Crew.

Eye lived entirely on a com-
plex chlorophyl chain. Feeder
reproduced this for him, then
went over to give Talker his
hydrocarbons, and the Walls
their chlorine compound. For
Doctor he made a facsimile of a
silicate fruit that grew on Doc-
tor's native planet.

FINALLY, feeding was over
and the Ship back in order.
The Accumulators were stacked
in a corner, blissfully sleeping
again. Eye was extending his
vision as far as he could, shaping
his main seeing organ for high-
powered telescopic reception.
Even in this emergency, Eye
couldn't resist making verses. He
announced that he was at work
on a new narrative poem, called
Peripheral Glow. No one wanted
to hear it, so Eye fed it to Think-
er, who stored everything, good
or bad, right or wrong.

Engine never slept. Filled to
the brim on Pusher, he shoved
the Ship along at several times
the speed of light.

The Walls were arguing among
themselves about who had been
the drunkest during their last
leave.

Talker decided to make him-
self comfortable. He released his
hold on the Walls and swung in
the air, his small round body
suspended by his crisscrossed
network of filaments.

He thought briefly about
Pusher. It was strange. Pusher
had been everyone's friend and
now he was forgotten. That
wasn't because of indifference; it
was because the Ship was a unit.
The loss of a member was re-
gretted, but the important thing
was for the unit to go on.

The Ship raced through the

SPECIALIST

73

suns of the periphery.

Thinker laid out a search
spiral, calculating their odds on
finding a Pusher planet at rough-
ly four to one. In a week they
found a planet of primitive
Walls. Dropping low, they could
see the leathery, rectangular fel-
lows basking in the sun, crawling
over rocks, stretching themselves
thin in order to float in the
breeze.

All the Ship's Walls heaved a
sigh of nostalgia. It was just like
home.

These Walls on the planet
hadn't been contacted by a galac-
tic team yet, and were still una-
ware of their great destiny — to
join in the vast Cooperation of
the Galaxy.

There were plenty of dead
worlds in the spiral, and worlds
too young to bear life. They
found a planet of Talkers. The
Talkers had extended their spi-
dery communication lines across
half a continent.

Talker looked at them eagerly,
through Eye. A wave of self-pity
washed over him. He remem-
bered home, his family, his
friends. He thought of the tree
he was planning to buy when he
got back.

For a moment, Talker won-
dered what he was doing here,
part of a Ship in a far corner of
the Galaxy.

He shrugged off the mood.

They were bound to find a Push-
er planet, if they looked long
enough.

At least, he hoped so.

THERE was a long stretch of
arid worlds as the Ship push-
ed through the unexplored peri-
phery. Then a planetful of
primeval Engines, swimming in a
radioactive ocean.

"This is rich territory," Feeder
said to Talker. "Galactic should
send a Contact party here."

"They probably will, after we
get back," Talker said.

They were good friends, above
and beyond the all-enveloping
friendship of the Crew. It wasn't
only because they were the
youngest Crew members, al-
though that had something to do
with it. They both had the same
kind of functions and that made
for a certain rapport. Talker
translated languages ; Feeder
transformed foods. Also, they
looked somewhat alike. Talker
was a central core with radiating
filaments; Feeder was a central
core with radiating tentacles.

Talker thought that Feeder
was the next most aware being
on the Ship. He was never really
able to understand how some of
the others carried on the pro-
cesses of consciousness.

More suns, more planets. En-
gine started to overheat. Usually,
Engine was used only for taking

74

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

off and landing, and for fine
maneuvering in a planetary
group. Now he had been running
continuously for weeks, both
over and under the speed of light.
The strain was telling on him.

Feeder, with Doctor's help, rig-
ged a cooling system for him. It
was crude, but it had to suffice.
Feeder rearranged nitrogen, oxy-
gen and hydrogen atoms to make
a coolant for the system. Doctor
diagnosed a long rest for Engine.
He said that the gallant old fel-
low couldn't stand the strain for
more than a week.

The search continued, with the
Crew's spirits gradually drop-
ping. They all realized that
Pushers were rather rare in the
Galaxy, as compared to the fer-
tile Walls and Engines.

The Walls were getting pock-
marked from interstellar dust.
They complained that they would
need a full beauty treatment
when they got home. Talker as-
sured them that the company
would pay for it.

Even Eye was getting blood-
shot from staring into space so
continuously.

They dipped over another
planet. Its characteristics were
flashed to Thinker, who mulled
over them.

Closer, and they could make
out the forms.

Pushers! Primitive Pushers!

They zoomed back into space

to make plans. Feeder produced
twenty-three different kinds of
intoxicants for a celebration.

The Ship wasn't fit to function
for three days.

EVERYONE ready now?"
Talker asked, a bit fuzzily.
He had a hangover that burned
all along his nerve ends. What a
drunk he had thrown! He had a
vague recollection of embracing
Engine, inviting him to share his
tree when they got back home.

He shuddered at the idea.

The rest of the Crew were
pretty shaky, too. The Walls
were letting air leak into space;
they were just too wobbly to seal
their edges properly. Doctor had
passed out.

But the worst off was Feeder.
Since his system could adapt to
any type of fuel except atomic,
he had been sampling every
batch he made, whether it was
an unbalanced iodine, pure oxy-
gen or a supercharged ester. He
was really miserable. His tenta-
cles, usually a healthy aqua,
were shot through with orange
streaks. His system was working
furiously, purging itself of every-
thing, and Feeder was suffering
the effects of the purge.

The only sober ones were
Thinker and Engine. Thinker
didn't drink,, which was unusual
for a spacer, though typical of
Thinker, and Engine couldn't.

SPECIALIST

75

They listened while Thinker
reeled off some astounding facts.
From Eye's pictures of the plan-
et's surface, Thinker had detect-
ed the presence of metallic
construction. He put forth the
alarming suggestion that these
Pushers had constructed a me-
chanical civilization.

"That's impossible," three of
the Walls said flatly, and most
of the Crew were inclined to
agree with them. All the metal
they had ever seen had been
buried in the ground or lying
around in worthless oxidized
chunks.

"Do you mean that they make
things out of metal?" Talker de-
manded. "Out of just plain dead
metal? What could they make?"

"They couldn't make any-
thing," Feeder said positively.
"It would break down constant-
ly. I mean metal doesn't know
when it's weakening."

But it seemed to be true. Eye
magnified his' pictures, and ev-
eryone could see that the Pushers
had made vast shelters, vehicles,
and other articles from inanimate
material.

The reason for this was not
readily apparent, but it wasn't a
good sign. However, the really
hard part was over. The Pusher
planet had been found. All that
remained was the relatively easy
job of convincing a native Push-
er, which shouldn't be too hard.

on

Talker knew that cooperation
was the keystone of the Galaxy
even among primitive peoples

The Crew decided not to land
in a populated region. Of course,
there was no reason not to ex-
pect a friendly greeting, but it
was the job of a Contact Team
to get in touch with them as a
race. All they wanted was an
individual.

Accordingly, they picked out
a sparsely populated land-mass,
drifting in while that side of the
planet was dark.

They were able to locate a
solitary Pusher almost at once.

EYE adapted his vision to see
in the dark, and they fol-
lowed the Pusher's movements.
He lay down, after a while, be-
side a smalL fire. Thinker told
them that this was a well-known
resting habit of Pushers.

Just before dawn, the Walls
opened, and Feeder, Talker and
Doctor came out.

Feeder dashed forward and
tapped the creature on the shoul-
der. Talker followed with a com-
munication tendril.

The Pusher opened his seeing .
organs, blinked them, and made
a movement with his eating or-
gan. Then he leaped to his feet
and started to run.

The three Crew members were
astounded. The Pusher hadn't
even waited to find out what

76

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

the three of them wanted!

Talker extended a filament
rapidly, and caught the Pusher,
fifty feet away, by a limb. The
Pusher fell.

"Treat him gently," Feeder
said. "He might be startled by
our appearance." He twitched his
tendrils at the idea of a Pusher —
one of the strangest sights in the
Galaxy, with his multiple organs
— being startled at someone else's
appearance.

Feeder and Doctor scurried to
the fallen Pusher, picked him up
and carried him back to the
Ship.

The Walls sealed again. They
released the Pusher and prepared
to talk.

As soon as he was free, the
Pusher sprang to his limbs and
ran at the place where the Walls
had sealed. He pounded against
them frantically, his eating organ
open and vibrating.

"Stop that," the Wall said. He
bulged, and the Pusher tumbled
to the floor. Instantly, he jumped
up and started to run forward.

"Stop him," Talker said. "He
might hurt himself."

One of the Accumulators woke
up enough to roll into the Push-
er's path. The Pusher fell, got
up again, and ran on.

Talker had his filaments in the
front of the Ship also, and he
caught the Pusher in the bow.
The Pusher started to tear at his

tendrils, and Talker let go
hastily.

"Plug him into the communi-
cation system!" Feeder shouted.
"Maybe we can reason with
him!"

Talker advanced a filament
toward the Pusher's head, wav-
ing it in the universal sign of
communication. But the Pusher
continued his amazing behavior,
jumping out of the way. He had
a piece of metal in his hand and
he was waving it frantically.

"What do you think he's going
to do with that?" Feeder asked.
The Pusher started to attack the
side of the Ship, pounding at
one of the Walls. The Wall stif-
fened instinctively and the metal
snapped.

"Leave him alone," Talker
said. "Give him a chance to
calm down."

rpALKER consulted with
-*- Thinker, but they couldn't
decide what to do about the
Pusher. He wouldn't accept com-
munication. Every time Talker
extended a filament, the Pusher
showed all the signs of violent
panic. Temporarily, it was an
impasse.

Thinker vetoed the plan of
finding another Pusher on the
planet., He considered this Push-
er's behavior typical; nothing
would be gained by approaching
another. Also, a planet was sup-

SPECI ALIST

77

posed to be contacted only by a
Contact Team.

If they couldn't communicate
with this Pusher, they never
would with another on the
planet.

"I think I know what the
trouble is," Eye said. He crawled
up on an Accumulator. "These
Pushers have evolved a mechan-
ical civilization. Consider for a
minute how they went about it.
They developed the use of their
fingers, like Doctor, to shape
metal. They utilized their seeing
organs, like myself. And proba-
bly countless other organs." He
paused for effect.

"These Pushers have become
unspecialized!"

They argued over it for
several hours. The Walls main-
tained that no intelligent crea-
ture could be unspecialized. It
was unknown in the Galaxy. But
the evidence was before them —
The Pusher cities, their vehicles
. . . This Pusher, exemplifying
the rest, seemed capable of a
multitude of things.

He was able to do everything
except Push!

Thinker supplied a partial ex-
planation. "This is not a primi-
tive planet. It is relatively old
and should have been in the Co-
operation thousands of years
ago. Since it was not, the Pushers
upon it were robbed of their
birthright. Their ability, their

specialty, was to Push, but there
was nothing to Push. Naturally,
they have developed a deviant
culture.

"Exactly what this culture is,
we can only guess. But on the
basis of the evidence, there is
reason to believe that these
Pushers are — uncooperative."

Thinker had a habit of utter-
ing the most shattering statement
in the quietest possible way.

"It is entirely possible,"
Thinker went on inexorably,
"that these Pushers will have
nothing to do with us. In which
case, our chances are approxi-
mately 283 to one against finding
another Pusher planet."

"We can't be sure he won't
cooperate," Talker said, "until
we get him into communication."
He found it almost impossible to
believe that any intelligent crea-
ture would refuse to cooperate
willingly.

"But how?" Feeder asked.
They decided upon a course of
action. Doctor walked slowly up
to the Pusher, who backed away
from him. In the meantime,
Talker extended a filament out-
side the Ship, around, and in
again, behind the Pusher.

The Pusher backed against a
Wall — and Talker shoved the
filament through the Pusher's
head, into the communication
socket in the center of his brain.

The Pusher collapsed.

78

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

WHEN he came to, Feeder
and Doctor had to hold the
Pusher's limbs, or he would have
ripped out the communication
line. Talker exercised his skill in
learning the Pusher's language.

It wasn't too hard. All Pusher
languages were of the same fam-
ily, and this was no exception.
Talker was able to catch enough
surface thoughts to form a pat-
tern.

He tried to communicate with
the Pusher.

The Pusher was silent.

"I think he needs food," Feed-
er said. They remembered that
it had been almost two days
since they had taken the Pusher
on board. Feeder worked up
some standard Pusher food and
offered it.

"My God! A steak!" the Push-
er said.

The Crew cheered along Talk-
er's communication circuits. The
Pusher had said his first words!

Talker examined the words
and searched his memory. He
knew about two hundred Pusher
languages and many more simple
variations. He found that this
Pusher was speaking a cross of
two Pusher tongues.

After the Pusher had eaten, he
looked around. Talker caught
his thoughts and broadcast them
to the Crew.

The Pusher had a queer way
of looking at the Ship. He saw

it as a riot of colors. The walls
undulated. In front of him was
something resembling a gigantic
spider, colored black and green,
with his web running all over the
Ship and into the heads of all the
creatures. He saw Eye as a
strange, naked little animal,
something between a skinned
rabbit and an egg yolk — what-
ever those things were.

Talker was fascinated by the
new perspective the Pusher's
mind gave him. He had never
seen things that way before. But
now that the Pusher was point-
ing it out, Eye was a pretty
funny-looking creature.

They settled down to commu-
nication.

"What in hell are you things?"
the Pusher asked, much calmer
now than he had been during
the two days. "Why did you
grab me? Have I gone nuts?"

"No," Talker said, "you are
not psychotic. We are a galactic
trading ship. We were blown off
our course by a storm and our
Pusher was killed."

"Well, what does that have to
do with me?"

"We would like you to join
our crew," Talker said, "to be
our new Pusher."

'■"'HE Pusher thought it over
■■- after the situation was ex-
plained to him. Talker could
catch the feeling of conflict in the

SPECIALIST

79

Pusher's thoughts. He hadn't de-
cided whether to accept this as a
real situation or not. Finally, the
Pusher decided that he wasn't
crazy.

"Look, boys," he said, "I don't
know what you are or how this
makes sense. I have to get out
of here. I'm on a furlough, and
if I don't get back soon, the U. S.
Army's going to be very inter-
ested."

Talker asked the Pusher to
give him more information about
"army," and he fed it to Thinker.

"These Pushers engage in per-
sonal combat," was Thinker's
conclusion.

"But why?" Talker asked.
Sadly he admitted to himself
that Thinker might have been
right; the Pusher didn't show
many signs of willingness to co-
operate.

"I'd like to help you lads out,"
Pusher said, "but I've got a war
to fight. Besides, I don't know
where you get the idea that I
could push anything this size.
You'd need a whole division of
tanks just to budge it."

"Do you approve of this war?"
Talker asked, getting a sugges-
tion from Thinker.

"Nobody likes war — not those
who have to do the dying at
least."

"Then why do you fight it?"

The Pusher made a gesture
with his eating organ, which Eye

picked up and sent to Thinker.
"It's kill or be killed. You guys
know what war is, don't you?"

"We don't have any wars,"
Talker said.

"You're lucky," the Pusher
said bitterly. "We do. Plenty of
them."

"Of course,"" Talker said. He
had the full explanation from
Thinker now. "Would you like
to end them?"

"Of course I would."

"Then come with us. Be our
Pusher."

The Pusher stood up and
walked up to an Accumulator.
He sat down on it and doubled
the ends of his upper limbs.

"How the hell can I stop all
wars?" the Pusher demanded.
"I'm just Private Dave Martin-
son. Even if I went to the big
shots and told them — "

"You won't have to," Talker
said. "All you have to do is come
with us. Push us to our base.
Galactic will send a Contact
Team to your planet. That will
end your wars."

"The hell you say," the Pusher
replied. "You boys are stranded
here, huh? Good enough. No
monsters are going to take over
Earth."

DEWILDEREDLY, Talker
-"-* tried to understand the rea-
soning. Had he said something
wrong? Was it possible that the

80

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Pusher didn't understand him?

"I thought you wanted to end
wars," Talker said.

"Sure I do. But I don't want
anyone making us stop. I'm no
traitor. I'd rather fight."

"No one will make you stop.
You just will stop because there
will be no further need for fight-
ing."

"Do you know why we're
fighting?"

"It's obvious."

"Yeah? What's your explana-
tion?"

"You Pushers have been sepa-
rated from the main stream of
the Galaxy," Talker explained.
"You have your specialty — push-
ing — but nothing to Push. Ac-
cordingly, you have no real jobs.
You play with things — metal,
inanimate objects — but find no
real satisfaction. Robbed of your
true vocation, you fight from
sheer frustration.

"Once you find your place in
the galactic Cooperation — and I
assure you that it is ap important
place — your fighting will stop.
Why should you fight, which is
an unnatural occupation, when
you can Push? Also, your me-
chanical civilization will end,
since there will be no need for
it."

The Pusher shook his head in
what Talker guessed was a ges-
ture of confusion. "What is this
pushing?"

Talker told him as best he
could. Since the job was out of
his scope, he had only a general
idea of what a Pusher did.

"You mean to say that that is
what every Earthman should be
doing?"

"Of course," Talker said. "It is
your great specialty."

The Pusher thought about it
for several minutes. "I think you
want a physicist or a mentalist
or something. I could never do
anything like that. I'm a junior
architect. And besides — well, it's
difficult to explain."

But Talker had already caught
Pusher's objection. He saw a
Pusher female in his thoughts.
No, two, three. And he caught
a feeling of loneliness, strange-
ness. The Pusher was filled with
doubts. He was afraid.

"When we reach galactic,"
Talker said, hoping it was the
right thing, "you can meet other
Pushers. Pusher females, too. All
you Pushers look alike, so you
should become friends with
them. As far as loneliness in the
Ship goes — it just doesn't exist.
You don't understand the Co-
operation yet. No one is lonely in
the Cooperation."

THE Pusher was still consider-
ing the idea of there being
other Pushers. Talker couldn't
understand why he was so star-
tled at that. The Galaxy was

SPECIALIST

81

filled with Pushers, Feeders,
Talkers, and many other species,
endlessly duplicated.

"I can't believe that anybody
could end all war," Pusher said.
"How do I know you're not ly-
ing? I won't go."

Talker felt as if he had been
struck in the face. Thinker must
have been right when he said
these Pushers would be uncoop-
erative. Was this going to be the
end of Talker's career? Were he
and the rest of the Crew going to
spend the rest of their lives in
space, because of the stupidity of
a bunch of Pushers?

Even thinking this, Talker was
able to feel sorry for the Pusher.
It must be terrible, he thought.
Doubting, uncertain, never trust-
ing anyone. If these Pushers
didn't find their place in the Gal-
axy, they would exterminate
themselves. Their place in the
Cooperation was long overdue.

"What can I do to convince
you?" Talker asked.

In despair, he opened all the
circuits to the Pusher. He let the
Pusher see Engine's good-natured
gruffness, the devil - may - care
humor of the Walls; he showed
him Eye's poetic attempts, and
Feeder's cocky good nature. He
opened his own mind and showed
the Pusher a picture of his home
planet, his family, the tree he
was planning to buy when he
got home.

The pictures told the story of
all of them, from different plan-
ets, representing different ethics,
united by a common bond — the
galactic Cooperation.

The Pusher watched it all in
silence.

After a while, he shook his
head. The thought accompany-
ing the gesture was uncertain,
weak — but negative.

Talker told the Walls to open.
They did, and the Pusher looked
at his own planet in amazement.

"You may leave," Talker said.
"Just remove the communication
line and go."

"What will you do?"

"We will look for another
Pusher planet."

"Where? Mars? Venus?"

"We don't know. All we can do
is hope there is another in this
region."

The Pusher looked at the
opening, then back at the Crew.
He hesitated and his face screwed
up in a grimace of indecision.

"All that you showed me was
true?"

No answer was necessary.

ALL right," the Pusher said
suddenly. "I'll go. I'm a
damned fool, but I'll go. If this
means what you say — it must
mean what you say!"

Talker saw that the agony of
the Pusher's decision had forced
him out of contact with reality.

82

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

He believed that he was back in
a dream, where decisions are
easy and unimportant.

"There's just one little trou-
ble," Pusher said with the light-
ness of hysteria. "Boys, I'll be
hanged if I know how to Push.
You said something about faster-
than-light? I can't even run the
mile in an hour."

"Of course you can Push,"
Talker assured him, hoping he
was right. He knew what a Push-
er's abilities were; but this one
. . . "Just try it."

"Sure," Pusher agreed. "I'll
probably wake up out of this,
anyhow."

They sealed the ship for take-
off while Pusher talked to him-
self.

"Funny," Pusher said. "I
thought a camping trip would be
a nice way to spend a furlough
and all I do is get nightmares!"

Engine boosted the Ship into
the air. The Walls were sealed
and Eye was guiding them away
from the planet.

"We're in clear space now,"
Talker said. Listening to Pusher,
he hoped his mind hadn't crack-
ed. "Eye and Thinker will give
a direction, I'll transmit it to
you, and you Push along it."

"You're crazy," Pusher mum-
bled. "You must have the wrong
planet. I wish you nightmares
would go away."

"You're in the Cooperation

now," Talker said desperately.
"There's the direction. Push!"

The Pusher didn't do anything
for a moment. He was slowly
emerging from his fantasy, real-
izing that he wasn't in a dream,
after all. He felt the Cooperation.
Eye to Thinker, Thinker to
Talker, Talker to Pusher, all in-
tercoordinated with Walls, and
with each other.

"What is this?" Pusher asked.
He felt the oneness of the Ship,
the great warmth, the closeness
achieved only in the Coopera-
tion.

He Pushed.

Nothing happened.

"Try again," Talker begged.

TJUSHER searched his mind.
■*• He found a deep well of
doubt and fear. Staring into it,
he saw his own tortured face.

Thinker illuminated it for him.

Pushers had lived with this
doubt and fear for centuries.
Pushers had fought through fear,
killed through doubt.

That was where the Pusher
organ was!

Martinson — specialist, Pusher
— entered fully into the Crew,
merged with them, threw mental
arms around the shoulders of
Thinker and Talker.

Suddenly, the Ship shot for-
ward at eight times the speed of
light. It continued to accelerate.
—ROBERT SHECKLEY

SPECIALIST

83

o:

m

Information

By WILLY LEY

THE BIRTH OF THE
SPACE STATION (II)

1AST month, I told how the
concept of the manned
_J rocket in an orbital path
around the Earth and its possible
subsequent development into a
space station was evolved and
presented by Hermann Oberth in
1923. After that, very little hap-
pened for about six years and the

84

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

reason was a popular book.

Oberth's original work, while
not long, was very hard reading
for practically everybody. There
were pages upon pages of massed
equations and the "clear text"
which followed after such a dis-
cussion made very little sense un-
less you had waded through the
mathematics preceding them.

Oberth was approached by his
own publisher with the suggestion
of writing a popular version of
his work. He was not opposed to
the idea in principle, as many
other German scientists of that
time would have been, but he
did not have the time to write it.
Once or twice, I believe, he ac-
tually started to, but each time
a new and unsuspected and most
interesting mathematical rela-
tionship turned up which, of
course, had to be investigated
first.

Then, one day, a professional
writer came to Oberth, suggesting
that they do the book in collabo-
ration. Oberth was to supply the
information and the writer — his
name was Max Valier — was to
do the writing.

TT did not work out well. Valier
-*• was not able to follow Oberth's
mathematical reasoning on many
points. He suggested "improve-
ments." Oberth tried to explain
why these suggestions, far from
being improvements, would not

work. Sometimes he convinced
Valier, generally he did not, and
he had to explain later that Va-
lier's book was, after all, Valier's
book and not his. His problem
was that many other people be-
gan writing about "Oberth's
ideas," but took their information
from Valier.

As for the space station, Valier
had not mentioned it at all. He
had simply skipped that portion
of Oberth's work. I am not sure
whether he failed to understand
the concept or just what prompt-
ed him. At any event, instead of
discussing the space station con-
cept, he described a base on the
Moon. When I questioned him
about that once, he declared that
he could not see why anybody
should bother to build a space
station when we have a ready-
made natural space station in the
form of the Moon.

I tried to reason with him that
hauling anything to the Moon is
obviously much more difficult
than hauling the same thing to
a height of, say, 1000 miles and
providing it with a lateral push
so that it would take up an orbit
and stay there.

Valier replied that hauling
something to an orbit would re-
quire a velocity of about 5.5 miles
per second (including air resist-
ance and a safety factor) while
hauling something to the Moon
would require "just 1.5 miles per

FOR YOUR INFORMATION

85

second more." ('Tain't so. Seven
miles per second will merely get
you through the Earth's gravita-
tional field. Then you need addi-
tional fuel to brake your fall and
to adapt to the orbital velocity of
the Moon.) Furthermore, Valier
insisted, you would have to haul
"everything" to the space sta-
tion's orbit, but only essentials to
the Moon, where you could build
what you need from raw materi-
als to be found there. (Optimistic,
to put it mildly.)

Still thinking I might win, I
pointed out that if the primary
purpose of a space station were
to serve as a refueling place for
interplanetary ships, a ship leav-
ing from the station would have
a speed of some 4.5 miles per sec-
ond relative to the Earth, and
would only have to make up the
difference between 4.5 miles per
second and the actual velocity
required for the interplanetary
trip, which would be some 8.5 — 9
miles per second relative to
Earth. The moon, I then said,
has an orbital velocity of only
0.6 miles per second and more
than that is needed even to over-
come its own gravitational field.

No go. Valier insisted that the
raw material for fuel would be
found on the Moon, too, so it
would be unimportant that the
Moon's orbital velocity is of no
real help.

Since his answers were pat,

while my own portion of the dis-
cussion came out slowly and
gropingly, I feel sure that he had
had the same discussion with
Oberth before and had not been
convinced. And since, as I have
already said, people absorbed
Oberth's ideas from Valier's book,
there was no space station dis-
cussion for quite some time after-
ward.

^TiHE first book largely devoted
-■- to the idea of the space station
appeared in 1929. Its author was
an Austrian by the name of Po-
tocnic who wrote under the pen
name of Herman Noordung. The
title page of his book stated that
he was an engineer and a captain
in the reserve. To this day, I have
failed to find out whether these
two statements belonged together
— meaning that he was a captain
in the engineer corps — or whether
one was his peacetime occupa-
tion and the other a wartime com-
mission.

The title of the book was Das
Problem der Befahrung des Welt-
raums ("The Problem of Travel
in Space") and Potocnic-Noor-
dung succeeded in getting himself
into the bad graces of all the
rocket men at once by producing
a fantastic method for calculat-
ing overall efficiency. Another
point on which he failed to make
friends was his insistence that a
space station should be located

86

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

over the equator, 22,300 miles
above mean sea level. At such a
distance, the station would need
precisely 24 hours to go around
the Earth once. If it moved in an
easterly direction, it would seem
to stand still over one point of
the equator.

For reasons I still don't under-
stand, Potocnic-Noordung con-
sidered this a great advantage,
though actually such a position
would be full of drawbacks. The
station could be seen from only
one hemisphere, but it could also
observe only one hemisphere. Be-
cause of the long distance — costly
in fuel consumption — it could not
even observe very well.

But he did have a number of
interesting ideas. His proposed
space station consisted of three
units: the "living wheel" (as he
called it), the "power house" and
the "observatory."

The first was to be a wheel-
shaped unit, about 100 feet in di-
ameter, which was to spin around
its hub so as to substitute cen-
trifugal force for gravity around
the rim. Of course the entrance
was in the hub and he drew a
diagram of a counter-rotating air-
lock for the hub.

Potocnic-Noordung also point-
ed out that there would be a
slight difference in apparent grav-
ity between the head and the feet
of a man standing upright, and
said that one would have to com-

pensate for this while moving,
especially if it came to vertical
movements. He stated correctly
that power could be had free
from the Sun, by means of a
condensing mirror and steam
boiler pipe.

Along with these essentially
correct thoughts, however, there
ran a number of boners. For ex-
ample, he wanted to spin the
wheel so rapidly that the cen-
trifugal force inside would be one
full g. This would require one
complete revolution in 8 seconds.
Actually there is no need for one
full g inside a space station, just
as there is no need for sea -level
air-pressure. Even untrained peo-
ple are adaptable enough so that
Yz g and about half-sea-level
pressure (with a higher oxygen
content) would be sufficient. This
would cut down the number of
revolutions per minute required
and lighten the whole structure
very considerably.

A NOTHER of Potocnic-Noor-

J\

dung's misconceptions I al-

ways look at with a smile is the
design of his windows. They are
slightly convex lenses and many
of the windows are also equipped
with a plane mirror in a frame on
the outside, adjusted to reflect
additional sunlight into the in-
terior of the station. What every-
body forgot until recently is that
people aren't cold-blooded and

FOR YOUR INFORMATION

87

that the "heating device" for a
spacesuit is the guy inside. In
fact, these "heating devices" are
so annoyingly efficient that the
main worry of the modern space
engineer is how to get rid of all
the surplus heat.

The second unit, the "observa-
tory," was not described in much
detail. It was merely stated that
it would be cylindrical, like a
boiler, to maintain pressure in-
side and that it would contain
all the astronomical instruments.
It was not supposed to rotate, but
was to be connected with the
main station or "living wheel" by
two electric cables and a flexible
air hose. It was to be properly
heated simply by piping air of
the right temperature into it,
while the power cables were to
supply electricity for the instru-
mentation.

The third unit, the "power
house," was mostly a large para-
bolic mirror with a set of boiler
pipes along the focal line (the
description grew more and more
vague) and the current generated
was to be supplied to the "living
wheel" or else to be stored in
storage batteries.

As regards the purpose of the
whole space station, Potocnic-
Noordung merely paraphrased
Oberth : Earth observation, astro-
nomical observation, possible
warlike action by means of a
solar mirror and possible storage

of fuels for long distance trips.

During the same year, 1929,
there appeared a series of articles
on the space station concept by
another author, Count Guido von
Pirquet, then Secretary of the
Austrian Society for Space Travel
Research. The articles were pub-
lished in the monthly journal Die
Rakete ("The Rocket") of the
German Society for Space Travel,
usually abbreviated as VfR.

While Potocnic-Noordung had
devoted a lot of attention to de-
sign detail and virtually none at
all to the optimum orbit, von
Pirquet did not say a word about
design detail, but calculated care-
fully where his space station
should be located and why. In the
course of these calculations, von
Pirquet discovered a fundamental
fact which has often been quoted
since :

You can't have space travel at
all with chemical fuels unless you
build a space station first.

A secondary but almost equally
important discovery was that the
building of the space station, the
necessary first step, is also the
most difficult.

Everything that comes after-
ward is simple, or almost so, by
comparison.

TT should be obvious by now
-*• that the various possible pur-
poses of a space station are to
some slight extent contradictory.

88

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

From the point of view of fuel
economy, the nearer the Earth,
the better.

From the point of view of
Earth observation, you also do
generally better if you are close,
but the 'limits are somewhat dif-
ferent. You don't want to be quite
as close as you would like to be
from the standpoint of fuel econ-
omy.

From the point of view of re-
fueling depot for long range trips,
you may have trouble making up
your mind. A "low" orbit will
provide you with a higher orbital
velocity, but a somewhat higher
orbit might give you more room
for maneuvering. The modern
compromise orbit is the one ad-
vocated by Dr. Wernher von
Braun — 1075 miles above sea
level, which would produce a per-
iod of revolution around the
Earth of precisely two hours.

Count von Pirquet solved this
dilemma in a different way. Like
Potocnic-Noordung, he advocated
a three-unit station. But the three
units were to run in three differ-
ent orbits.

The one closest to Earth, the
so-called Inner Station, was to
revolve 470 miles above sea level
with an orbital period of 100 min-
utes. The one farthest away, the
so-called Outer Station, was to
circle the Earth 3100 miles from
the surface with an orbital period
of 200 minutes. The third, or

Transit Station, was to be on an
elliptical orbit touching the other
two orbits. Its distance from the
surface would therefore vary from
470 to 3100 miles and its orbital
period would be 150 minutes.
When closely approaching either
the Inner or the Outer Station,
the velocity of the Transit Sta-
tion would not match. There
would be a velocity difference of
about y^ mile per second which
would have to be adjusted for the
men and materials to be trans-
ferred.

While the two statements at
which von Pirquet arrived while
working on the problem of the
space station are still valid and
correct, his suggestion for a sta-
tion consisting of several units in
different orbits has not borne any
fruit.

A FTER the publication of these
-**• articles, there was another hi-
atus in the development of the
space station concept, lasting
longer than the first, about twenty
years. But then a lot of people
started work in earnest. A good
many of the papers read at the
Second International Congress for
Astronautics in London, 1951,
concerned one phase or another
of the space station concept.
Somewhat earlier, Wernher von
Braun had published his concept
in the book Space Medicine; a
few months later, it was revised

FOR YOUR INFORMATION

89

after prolonged discussions and
published in its present form in
the book Across the Space Fron-
tier.

Needless to say that the vari-
ous concepts published do not
closely agree with each other, for
there is room for a variety of
opinions. Obviously the space
station will look different if de-
signer A assumes heating by solar
radiation, something which is
known and can be calculated
right now, while designer B as-
sumes that the atomic engineers
will have come up with a useful
small atomic reactor during the
time it took the rocket engineers
to produce a suitable cargo-carry-
ing rocket to bring the space sta-
tion's material up into an orbit.

Although we can predict a
good deal of detail right now,
some of this will be subject to
change during the next decade.
We can be sure of one thing only :

There will be a space station
in the reasonably near future.

SLOWPOKE THOUGHT

T FORGET whether the villain
-■■ drew his blaster with light-
ning speed or with the speed of
light. No matter, for the worthy
hero drew his with the speed of
thought, so justice naturally
triumphed.

This column being what it is,
my readers will now expect me

to tabulate the figures for these
various speeds in kilometers or
in miles per second. And that is
just what I am going to do, not
wasting any time with the well-
known speed of light, but getting
right down to the speed of
thought.

We cannot actually measure
the speed of a thought, but for
this purpose we may consider
thought a nerve impulse and we
can measure that. If somebody
drops a five-pound weight on
your foot, you feel this "at once."
This is not due to any fantastic
speed of the nerve impulse,
though, but merely to the fact
that it is only about two yards
from your foot to your brain.

As I said, the speed of such
a nerve impulse can be measured,
the main difficulty being simply
that you deal with a relatively
high speed over a short distance.
Nothing organic which can be
used for such experiments is very
long. Consequently the figures
found by the various experiment-
ers differ somewhat.

The lowest figure I have seen
reported was 40 meters (131 feet)
per second, the highest 70 meters
(226 feet) per second. That higher
figure corresponds to 252 kilo-
meters or 157 miles per hour.

In Germany, some 50 years
ago, they used to say that the
principle of the electric telegraph
was easy to understand: just

90

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

imagine a dachshund long enough
to reach from one city to another.
You step on its tail in Berlin and
he'll bark in Hamburg. If we use
that dachshund under American
conditions, his tail ends at the
Loop in Chicago while his head
is at Times Square in New York.

Now let's translate that into
neural speed.

A driver in Chicago carelessly
rolls his car over the tail while
hurrying out to the airport, which
"is some forty minutes of hard
driving. While the driver fights
for his reservation — "I did con-
firm it, Miss!" — the nerve impulse
races through the long dachs-
hund's nerve fibers, having just
about passed Waterloo in Indiana
when the DC-6 experimentally
wags its ailerons prior to takeoff.
Then there is a little delay be-
cause somebody else wants to
land; the nerve impulse is still
racing.

The DC-6 overtakes it in the
general vicinity of Cleveland and
lands at La Guardia airport while
the nerve impulse is speeding
somewhere to the north of Pitts-
burgh. The man who started it
all in Chicago can wait for his
baggage, stand in line for a taxi
and have a leisurely meal in a
restaurant on Times Square, wait-
ing for the "bark" to arrive.

It does arrive — 4 hours and 40
minutes after it was started.

All this is under the assumption

that the speed of a nerve impulse
actually is 70 meters per second.
It may be as low as 40 meters
per second, which amounts to just
90 miles per hour. Of course, in-
side the body, with a maximum
distance of six feet to travel — 14
feet in the case of a giraffe — 90
mph serves as well as 150 mph
and improving it to 300 mph, if
that could be done, would prob-
ably not make any noticeable
difference.

But when it comes to really
long distances, pick something
faster than the speed of a nerve
impulse.

—WILLY LEY

ANY QUESTIONS?

/ would like to know if you
think that meteorite craters larger
than Chubb Crater in Canada
will be found on Earth.

Stephen Maran
500 St. John's PL
Brooklyn 16, N. Y.
I am convinced that craters
of meteoric origin larger than
Chubb Crater exist on Earth.
In fact, there are several forma-
tions which are suspected of
being just that.

One is Lake Bosumtvi in
Ashantiland in Africa, only a
few degrees from the equator.
This perfectly circular lake has
a diameter of six miles and the
general geology of the area is

FOR YOUR INFORMATION

91

such that meteoric origin is the
easiest explanation for its exist-
ence.

Another suspected crater is
the so-called Pretoria Salt Pan
in South Africa, which has an
even larger diameter— on the
order of twenty miles.

So far, the meteoric origin of
these formations has not been
proved, but I understand that
some work on the Pretoria Salt
Pan is in progress. The prob-
lem, as you can see from the
foregoing, is not the finding of
larger formations that might be
impact craters, but establishing
proof that they actually are
such.

In your article on the satellites
ot the Solar System (March 1952
GALAXY), you spoke of Pluto
as being moonless.

Is this an established fact or an
assumption because ot lack of
other evidence?

B. Rule
Haverford, Penna.

When I said that Pluto is
"moonless," I meant, of course,
that no moon of Pluto is known.
Since Pluto has been under
pretty intensive observation
from the time of its discovery,
the two statements "Pluto is
moonless" and "no satellite of
Pluto has been discovered so
far" mean pretty nearly the
same thing.

Are the large constellations in
the skies, such as Leo, Orion,
Ursus major and minor, etc.,
parts of our galaxy?

Alexander Bozic
9265 Shore Road
Brooklyn 9, N. Y.

Yes. The constellations you
name, and all the others which
could be listed, consist of stars
that belong to our galaxy.

The only naked-eye object in
the northern sky which does not
belong to our galaxy is the so-
called nebula in Andromeda
which is the nearest other
galaxy.

From the southern hemis-
phere, you can see two other
objects which are not members
of our galaxy— or only once
removed — namely, the two Ma-
gellanic Clouds. They are clouds
of stars outside our galaxy
proper, but they are what some
astronomers call "satellite gal-
axies," quite close to our own,
as galactic distances go. I am
not certain if it is known yet
whether the Magellanic Clouds
share the rotation of our galaxy,
but I would expect them to do
so.

Recently I heard (name de-
leted) say during a radio inter-
view that the Flying Saucers
originated from the star Wolf 359,
about eight light-years away.
What authority is there for mak-

92

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

ing such a statement? Does Wolf
359 have a planetary system? Is
there any other information on
this star obtainable?

Arthur C. Eckstein
200 West 70th St.
New York City, N. Y.

Even if there were any evi-
dence that the so-called Flying
Saucers are visitors from an-
other solar system, the star
Wolf 359 is about the silliest
possible choice. If it has been
picked merely because it is not
very far away (as measured in
light-years), I don't see why the
alleged experts did not settle for
Alpha Centauri.

Alpha Centauri is only about
half as far away as Wolf 359.
It also is a big binary, both

components of which are bright
stars.

Little Wolf 359 is one of the
faintest stars on record. Its ab-
solute magnitude is 18.5 and if
it were not so near, we wouldn't
even know that it exists. The
amount of energy emitted
from its surface is just about
1 /50,000th of that of our own
sun — it would take fifty thou-
sand of Wolf 359's caliber to
make one Sol.

We don't know whether Little
Wolfie has a planetary system,
but with an energy output like
that, its planets would be in a
sorry plight. Naturally, an "ex-
pert" would use that as a rea-
son for coming to our solar
system — and one probably will.

ITS FOR YOU!

The big news for us, of course, is the birth of BEYOND, the all-fantasy
companion magazine to GALAXY. Since almost all writers of science fiction
also enjoy writing fantasy, it seems reasonable that fantasy should appeal
to almost all science fiction readers . . . and we have a power-lineup of
stories in the first issue that should convince you that you will like fantasy:

. . . AND MY FEAR IS GREAT ... is an eerily exciting novella with a
full charge of the literary magic that Theodore Sturgeon is noted for.

It's aided by two sorcerer's journeymen novelets: BABEL II by Damon
Knight, which brings a frightful Biblical incident clear up to date, and T. L.
Sherred's EYE FOR INIQUITY, which proves that wishing can be profitable,
though not necessarily fun, considering the complications; and a host of
mesmeric, short stories to help conjure up a stimulating new magazine that
belongs right beside GALAXY on your library shelf and end-table.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION

93

A Gleeb

for Earth

By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER

Not to be or not to not be...
that was the not-question for
the invader of the not-world.

Illustrated by EMSH

DEAR Editor:
My 14 year old boy,
Ronnie, is typing this
letter for me because he can do
it neater and use better grammar.
I had to get in touch with some-
body about this because if there
is something to it, then some-
body, everybody, is going to
point finger at me, Ivan Smern-
da, and say, "Why didn't you
warn us?"

I could not go to the police be-

94

cause they are not too friendly
to me because of some of my
guests who frankly are stew
bums. Also they might think I
was on booze, too, or maybe the
hops, and get my license revoked.
I run a strictly legit hotel even
though some of my guests might
be down on their luck now and
then.

What really got me mixed up
in this was the mysterious dis-
appearance of two of my guests.
They both took a powder last
Wednesday morning.

Now get this. In one room, that
of Joe Binkle, which maybe is
an alias, I find nothing but a suit
of clothes, some butts and the
letters I include here in same
package. Binkle had only one
suit. That I know. And this was
it laying right in the middle of
the room. Inside the coat was the
vest, inside the vest the shirt,
inside the shirt the underwear.
The pants were up in the coat and
inside of them was also the un-
derwear. All this was buttoned
up like Binkle had melted out of
it and dripped through a crack in
the floor. In a bureau drawer were
the letters I told you about.

Now. In the room right under
Binkle's lived another stew bum
that checked in Thursday . . .
name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too.
This guy was a real case. He
brought with him a big mirror
with a heavy bronze frame. Air-

loom, he says. He pays a week in
advance, staggers up the stairs
to his room with the mirror and
that's the last I see of him.

In Smith's room on Wednesday
I find only a suit of clothes, the
same suit he wore when he came
in. In the coat the vest, in the
vest the shirt, in the shirt the
underwear. Also in the pants.
Also all in the middle of the
floor. Against the far wall stands
the frame of the mirror. Only the
frame ! ,

WHAT a spot to be in! Now
it might have been a gag.
Sometimes these guys get funny
ideas when they are on the stuff.
But then I read the letters. This
knocks me for a loop. They are
all in different handwritings. All
from different places. Stamps all
legit, my kid says. India, China,
England, everywhere.

My kid, he reads. He says it's
no joke. He wants to call the
cops or maybe some doctor. But
I say no. He reads your maga-
zine so he says write to you, send
you the letters. You know what to
do. Now you have them. Maybe
you print. Whatever you do, Mr.
Editor, remember my place, the
Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight es-
tablishment. I don't drink. I
never touch junk, not even as-
pirin.

Yours very truly,
Ivan Smernda

A GLEEB FOR EARTH

95

Bombay, India
June 8
Mr. Joe Binkle
Plaza Ritz Arms
New York City
Dear Joe:

Greetings, greetings, greetings.
Hold firm in your wretched pro-
jection, for tomorrow you will not
be alone in the not-world. In two
days I, Glmpauszn, will be born.

Today I hang in our newly de-
veloped not-pod just within the
mirror gateway, torn with the
agony that we calculated must go
with such tremendous wavelength
fluctuations. I have attuned my-
self to a fetus within the body of
a not-woman in the not-world.
Already I am static and for hours
have looked into this weird ex-
tension of the Universe with fear
and trepidation.

As soon as my stasis was
achieved, I tried to contact you,
but got no response. What could
have diminished your powers of
articulate wave interaction to
make you incapable of receiving
my messages and returning them?
My wave went out to yours and
found it, barely pulsing and sur-
rounded with an impregnable chi-
mera.

Quickly, from the not -world vi-
brations about you, I learned the
not-knowledge of your location.
So I must communicate with you
by what the not-world calls
"mail" till we meet. For this pur-

pose I must utilize the feeble vi-
brations of various not-people
through whose inadequate articu-
lation I will attempt to make my
moves known to you. Each time
I will pick a city other than the
one I am in at the time.

I, Glmpauszn, come equipped
with powers evolved from your
fragmentary reports before you
ceased to vibrate to us and with
a vast treasury of facts from in-
direct sources. Soon our tortured
people will be free of the fear-
some not-folk and I will be their
Jliberator. You failed in your
task, but I will try to get you off
with light punishment when we
return again.

The hand that writes this letter
is that of a boy in the not- city of
Bombay in the not-country of
India. He does not know he writes
it.- Tomorrow it will be someone
else. You must never know of my
exact location, for the not-people
might have access to the infor-
mation.

I must leave off now because
the not-child is about to be born.
When it is alone in the room, it
will be spirited away and I will
spring from the pod on the gate-
way into its crib and will be its
exact vibrational likeness.

I have tremendous powers. But
the not-people must never know
I am among them. This is the
only way I could arrive in the
room where the gateway lies

96

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

without arousing suspicion. I will
grow up as the not-child in order
that I might destroy the not-
people completely.

All is well, only they shot this
information file into my matrix
too fast. I'm having a hard time
sorting facts and make the right
decision. Gezsltrysk, what a task!

Farewell till later.

Glmpauszn

Wichita, Kansas
June 13
Dear Joe:

Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelno-
prausynks. No. When I com-
municate with you, I see I must
avoid those complexities of pro-
cedure for which there" are no
terms in this language. There is
no way of describing to you in
not-language what I had to go
through during the first moments
of my birth.

Now I know what difficulties
you must have had with your
limited equipment. These not-
people are unpredictable and
strange. Their doctor came in and
weighed me again the day after
my birth. Consternation reigned
when it was discovered I was ten
pounds heavier. What difference
could it possibly make? Many
doctors then came in to see me.
As they arrived hourly, they
found me heavier and heavier.
Naturally, since I am growing.
This is part of my instructions.

Mynot-mother (Gezsltrysk!) then
burst into tears. The doctors con-
ferred, threw up their hands and
left.

I learned the following day
that the opposite component of
my not-mother, my not-father,
had been away riding on some
conveyance during my birth. He
was out on . . . what did they call
it? Oh, yes, a bender. He did not
arrive till three days after I was
born.

When I heard them say that
he was straightening up to come
see me, I made a special effort
and grew marvelously in one af-
ternoon. I was 36 not-world
inches tall by evening. My not-
father entered while I was stand-
ing by the crib examining a
syringe the doctor had left be-
hind. He stopped in his tracks on
entering the room and seemed
incapable of speech.

Dredging into the treasury of
knowledge I had come equipped
with, I produced the proper
phrase for occasions of this kind
in the not-world.

"Poppa," I said.

This was the first use I had
made of the so-called vocal cords
that are now part of my extended
matrix. The sound I emitted
sounded low-pitched, guttural
and penetrating even to myself.
It must have jarred on my not-
father's ears, for he turned and
ran shouting from the room.

A GLEEB FOR EARTH

97

They apprehended him on the
stairs and I heard him babble
something about my being a
monster and no child of his. My
not-mother appeared at the door-
way and instead of being pleased
at the progress of my growth, she
fell down heavily. She made a
distinct thump on the floor.

This brought the rest of them
on the run, so I climbed out the
window and retreated across a
nearby field. A prolonged search
was launched, but I eluded them.
What unpredictable beings!

I reported my tremendous
progress back to our world, in-
cluding the cleverness by which
I managed to escape my pur-
suers. I received a reply from
Blgftury which, on careful anal-
ysis, seems to be small praise in-
deed. In fact, some of his phrases
apparently contain veiled threats.
But you know old Blgftury. He
wanted to go on this expedition
himself and it's his nature never
to flatter anyone.

From now on I will refer to
not-people simply as people,
dropping the qualifying preface
except where comparisons must
be made between this alleged
world and our own. It is merely
an offshoot of our primitive
mythology when this was con-
sidered a spirit world, just as
these people refer to our world as
never-never land and other
anomalies. But we learned other-

wise, while they never have.

New sensations crowd into my
consciousness and I am having
a hard time classifying them.
Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly
now to the inevitable climax in
which I singlehanded will obliter-
ate the terror of the not-world
and return to our world a hero.
I cannot understand your not
replying to my letters. I have
given you a box number. What
could have happened to your vi-
brations?

Glmpauszn

Albuquerque, New Mexico
June 15
Dear Joe:

I had tremendous difficulty
getting a letter off to you this
time. My process — original with
myself, by the way — is to send
out feeler vibrations for what
these people call the psychic in-
dividual. Then I establish contact
with him while he sleeps and
compel him without his knowl-
edge to translate my ideas into
written language. He writes my
letter and mails it to you. Of
course, he has no awareness of
what he has done.

My first five tries were unfor-
tunate. Each time I took control
of an individual who could not
read or write ! Finally I found my
man, but I fear his words are
limited. Ah, well. I had great
things to tell you about my prog-

98

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

ress, but I cannot convey even a
hint of how I have accomplished
these miracles through the thick
skull of this incompetent.

In simple terms then: I crept
into a cave and slipped into a
kind of sleep, directing my
squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg . . . no,
it won't come out. Anyway, I
grew overnight to the size of an
average person here.

As I said before, floods of im-
pressions are driving into my
xzbyl . . . my brain . . . from
various nerve and sense areas and
I am having a hard time classify-
ing them. My one idea was to get
to a chemist and acquire the
stuff needed for the destruction
of these people.

Sunrise came as I expected.
According to my catalog of
information, the impressions
aroused by it are of beauty. It
took little conditioning for me
finally to react in this manner.
This is truly an efficient mech-
anism I inhabit.

I gazed about me at the mix-
ture of lights, forms and impres-
sions. It was strange and . . .
now I know . . . beautiful. How-
ever, I hurried immediately
toward the nearest chemist. At
the same time I looked up and
all about me at the beauty.

Soon an individual approached.
I knew what to do from my in-
formation. I simply acted nat-
ural. You know, one of your

earliest instructions was to realize
that these people see nothing un-
usual in you if you do not let
yourself believe they do.

This individual I classified as
a female of a singular variety
here. Her hair was short, her
upper torso clad in a woolen gar-
ment. She wore . . . what are
they? . . . oh, yes, sneakers. My
attention was diverted by a
scream as I passed her. I stopped.

The woman gesticulated and
continued to scream. People hur-
ried from nearby houses. I linked
my hands behind me and
watched the scene with an atti-
tude of mild interest. They
weren't interested in me, I told
myself. But they were.

I became alarmed, dived into
a bush and used a mechanism
that you unfortunately do not
have — invisibility. I lay there and
listened.

"He was stark naked," the girl
with the sneakers said.

A figure I recognized as a police
officer spoke to her.

"Lizzy, you'll just have to keep
these crackpot friends of yours
out of this area."

"But—"

"No more buck-bathing, Liz-
zy," the officer ordered. "No more
speeches in the Square. Not when
it results in riots at five in the
morning. Now where is your
naked friend? I'm going to make
an example of him."

A GLEEB FOR EARTH

99

That was it — I had forgotten
clothes. There is only one answer
to this oversight on my part. My
mind is confused by the barrage
of impressions that assault it. I
must retire now and get them all
classified. Beauty, pain, fear,
hate, love, laughter. I don't know
one from the other. I must feel
each, become accustomed to it.

The more I think about it, the
more I realize that the informa-
tion I have been given is very
unrealistic. You have been ineffi-
cient, Joe. What will Blgftury
and the others say of this? My
great mission is impaired. Fare-
well, till I find a more intelligent
mind so I can write you with
more enlightenment.

Glmpauszn

Moscow, Idaho
June 17
Dear Joe:

I received your first communi-
cation today. It baffles me. Do
you greet me in the proper fringe-
zone manner? No. Do you express
joy, hope, pride, helpfulness at
my arrival? No. You ask me for
a loan of five bucks!

It took me some time, culling
my information catalog to come
up with the correct variant of
the slang term "buck." Is it pos-
sible that you are powerless even
to provide yourself with the
wherewithal to live in this inferior
world?

A reminder, please. You and I
— I in particular — are now en-
gaged in a struggle to free our
world from the terrible, maiming
intrusions of this not-world.
Through many long gleebs, our
people have lived a semi-terror-
ized existence while errant vibra-
tions from this world ripped
across the closely joined vibration
flux, whose individual fluctua-
tions make up our sentient popu-
lation.

Even our eminent, all-high
Frequency himself has often been
jeopardized by these people. The
not-world and our world are like
two baskets as you and I see
them in our present forms. Bas-
kets woven with the greatest in-
tricacy, design and color; but
baskets whose convex sides are
joined by a thin fringe of fila-
ments. Our world, on the vibra-
tional plane, extends just a bit
into this, the not-world. But be-
ing a world of higher vibration,
it is ultimately tenuous to these
gross peoples. While we vibrate
only within a restricted plane be-
cause of our purer, more stable
existence, these people radiate
widely into our world.

They even send what they call
psychic reproductions of their
own selves into ours. And most
infamous of all, they sometimes
are able to force some of our indi-
viduals over the fringe into their
world temporarily, causing them

100

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

much agony and fright.

The latter atrocity is perpe-
trated through what these people
call mediums, spiritualists and
other fatuous names. I intend to
visit one of them at the first
opportunity to see for myself.

Meanwhile, as to you, I would
offer a few words of advice. I
picked them up while examining
the "slang" portion of my infor-
mation catalog which you unfor-
tunately caused me to use. So,
for the ultimate cause — in this,
the penultimate adventure, and
for the glory and peace of our
world — shake a leg, bub.
Straighten up and fly right. In
short, get hep.

As far as-<he five bucks is con-
cerned, no dice.

Glmpauszn

Des Moines, Iowa

June 19
Dear Joe:

Your letter was imponderable
till I had thrashed through long
passages in my information cata-
log that I had never imagined I
would need. Biological functions
and bodily processes which are
labeled here "revolting" are used
freely in your missive. You can
be sure they are all being for-
warded to Blgftury. If I were not
involved in the most important
part of my journey — completion
of the weapon against the not-
worlders — I would come to New

York immediately. You would
rue that day, I assure you.

Glmpauszn

Boise, Idaho
July 15
Dear Joe:

A great deal has happened to
me since I wrote to you last. Sys-
tematically, I have tested each
emotion and sensation listed in
our catalog. I have been, as has
been said in this world, like a
reed bending before the winds of
passion. In fact, I'm rather badly
bent indeed. Ah! You'll pardon
me, but I just took time for what
is known quaintly in this tongue
as a "hooker of red-eye" Ha!
I've mastered even the vagaries
of slang in the not-language . . .
Ahhh! Pardon me again. I feel
much better now.

You see, 'Joe, as I attuned my-
self to the various impressions
that constantly assaulted my
mind through this body, I condi-
tioned myself to react exactly as
our information catalog instruct-
ed me to.

Now it is all automatic, pure
reflex. A sensation comes to me
when I am burned; then I experi-
ence a burning pain. If the sen-
sation is a tickle, I experience a
tickle.

This morning I have what is
known medically as a syndrome
... a group of symptoms popu-
larly referred to as a hangover

A GLEEB FOR EARTH

101

. . . Ahhh! Pardon me again.
Strangely . . . now what was I
saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strange-
ly enough, the reactions that
come easiest to the people in this
world came most difficult to me.
Money-love, for example. It is a
great thing here, both among
those who haven't got it and those
who have.

I went out and got plenty of
money. I walked invisible into a
bank and carried away piles of
it. Then I sat and looked at it.
I took the money to a remote
room of the twenty room suite I
have rented in the best hotel here
in — no, sorry — and stared at it
for hours.

Nothing happened. I didn't
love the stuff or feel one way or
the other about it. Yet all around
me people are actually killing one
another for the love of it.

Anyway . . . Ahhh. Pardon me.
I got myself enough money to
fill ten or fifteen rooms. By the
end of the week I should have
all eighteen spare rooms filled
with money. If I don't love it
then, I'll feel I have failed. This
alcohol is taking effect now.

Blgftury has been goading me
for reports. To hell with his re-
ports! I've got a lot more emo-
tions to try, such as romantic
love. I've been studying this phe-
nomenon, along with other racial
characteristics of these people, in
the movies. This is the best place

to see these people as they really
are. They all go into the movie
houses and there do homage to
their own images. Very quaint
type of idolatry.

Love. Ha! What an adventure
this is becoming.

By the way, Joe, I'm forward-
ing that five dollars. You see, it
won't cost me anything. It'll come
out of the pocket of the idiot
who's writing this letter. Pretty
shrewd of me, eh?

I'm going out and look at that
money again. I think I'm at last
learning to love it, though not as
much as I admire liquor. Well,
one simply must persevere, I al-
ways say.

CHmpauszn

Penobscot, Maine
July 20
Dear Joe:

Now you tell me not to drink
alcohol. Why not? You never
mentioned it in any of your vi-
brations to us, gleebs ago, when
you first came across to this
world. It will stint my powers?
Nonsense! Already I have had a
quart of the liquid today. I feel
wonderful. Get that? I actually
feel wonderful, in spite of this
miserable imitation of a body.

There are long hours during
which I am so well-integrated
into this body and this world that •
I almost consider myself a mem-
ber of it. Now I can function

102

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

efficiently. I sent Blgftury some
long reports today outlining my
experiments in the realm of
chemistry where we must finally
defeat these people. Of course, I
haven't made the experiments
yet, but I will. This is not deceit,
merely realistic anticipation of
the inevitable. Anyway, what the
old xbyzrt doesn't know won't
muss his vibrations.

I went to what they call a
nightclub here and picked out a
blonde-haired woman, the kind
that the books say men prefer.
She was attracted to me instantly.
After all, the body I have devised
is perfect in every detail . . .
actually a not-world ideal.

I didn't lose any time over-
whelming her susceptibilities. I
remember distinctly that just as
I stooped to pick up a large roll
of money I had dropped, her eyes
met mine and in them I could see
her admiration. We went to my
suite and I showed her one of the
money rooms. Would you believe
it? She actually took off her shoes
and ran around through the
money in her bare feet! Then we
kissed.

Concealed in the dermis of the
lips are tiny, highly sensitized
nerve ends which send sensations
to the brain. The brain interprets
these impulses in a certain man-
ner. As a result, the fate of secre-
tion in the adrenals on the ends
of the kidneys increases and an

enlivening of the -entire endo-
crine system follows. Thus I felt
the beginnings of love.

I sat her down on a pile of
money and kissed her again.
Again the tingling, again the se-
cretion and activation. I inte-
grated myself quickly.

Now in all the motion pictures
— true representations of life and
love in this world — the man with
a lot of money or virtue kisses
the girl and tries to induce her to
do something biological. She
then refuses. This pleases both of
them, for he wanted her to refuse.
She, in turn, wanted him to want
her, but also wanted to prevent
him so that he would have a high
opinion of her. Do I make myself
clear?

I kissed the blonde girl and
gave her to understand what I
then wanted. Well, you can ima-
gine my surprise when she said
yes! So I had failed. I had not
found love.

I became so abstracted by this
problem that the blonde girl fell
asleep. I thoughtfully drank
quantities of excellent alcohol
called gin and didn't even notice
when the blonde girl left.

I am now beginning to feel the
effects of this alcohol again. Ha.
Don't I wish old Blgftury were
here in the vibrational pattern of
an olive? I'd get the blonde in
and have her eat him out of a
Martini. That is a gin mixture.

A GLEEB FOR EARTH

103

I think I'll get a hot report off
to the old so-and-so right now.
It'll take him a gleeb to figure
this one out. I'll tell him I'm
setting up an atomic reactor in
the sewage systems here and that
all we have to do is activate it
and all the not-people will die of
chain asphyxiation.

Boy, 'What an easy job this
turned out to be. It's just a vaca-
tion. Joe, you old gold-bricker,
imagine you here all these gleebs
living off the fat of the land. Yak,
yak. Affectionately.

Glmpauszn

Sacramento, Calif.
July 25
Dear Joe:

All is lost unless we work
swiftly. I received your revealing
letter the morning after having
a terrible experience of my own.
I drank a lot of gin for two days
and then decided to go to one
of these seance things.

Somewhere along the way I
picked up a red-headed girl.
When we got to the darkened
seance room, I took the redhead
into a corner and continued my
investigations into the realm of
love. I failed again because she
said yes immediately.

The nerves of my dermis were
working over time when suddenly
I had the most frightening exped-
ience of my life. Now I know
what a horror these people really

are to our world.

The medium had turned out
all the lights. He said there was
a strong psychic influence in the
room somewhere. That was me,
of course, but I was too busy
with the redhead to notice.

Anyway, Mrs. Somebody
wanted to make contact with
her paternal grandmother, Lucy,
from the beyond. The medium
went into his act. He concen-
trated and sweated and suddenly
something began to take form in
the room. The best way to de-
scribe it in not-world language
is a white, shapeless cascade of
light.

Mrs. Somebody reared to her
feet and screeched, "Grandma
Lucy!" Then I really took no-
tice.

Grandma Lucy, nothing! This
medium had actually brought
Blgftury partially across the vi-
bration barrier. He must have
been vibrating in the fringe area
and got caught in the works. Did
he look mad! His zyhku was open
and his btgrimms were down.

Worst of all, he saw me.
Looked right at me with an un-
believable pattern of pain, anger,
fear and amazement in his ma-
trix. Me and the redhead.

Then comes your letter today
telling of the fate that befell you
as a result of drinking alcohol.
Our wrenchingly attuned facul-
ties in these not-world bodies

T04

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

need the loathsome drug to es-
cape from the reality of not-
reality. It's true./ I cannot do
without it now. The day is only
half over and I have consumed
a quart and a half. And it is dull-
ing all my powers as it has prac-
tically obliterated yours. I can't
even become invisible any more.

I must find the formula that
will wipe out the not-world men
quickly.

Quickly!

Glmpauszn

Florence, Italy
September 10
Dear Joe:

This telepathic control becomes
more difficult every time. I must
pick closer points of communi-
cation soon. I have nothing to
report but failure. I bought a ton
of equipment and went to work
on the formula that is half com-
plete in my instructions. Six of
my hotel rooms were filled with
tubes, pipes and apparatus of all
kinds.

I had got my mechanism as
close to perfect as possible when
I realized that, in my befuddled
condition, I had set off a reaction
that inevitably would result in
an explosion. I had to leave there
immediately, but I could not cre-
ate suspicion. The management
was not aware of the nature of
my activities.

I moved swiftly. I could not

afford time to bring my baggage.
I stuffed as much money into my
pockets as I could and then saun-
tered into the hotel lobby. Assum-
ing my most casual air, I told the
manager I was checking out.
Naturally he was stunned since T
was his best customer.

"But why, sir?" he asked plain-
tively.

I was baffled. What could I tell
him?

"Don't you like the rooms?"
he persisted. "Isn't the service
good?"

"It's the rooms," I told - him.
"They're — they're — "

"They're what?" he wanted to
know.

"They're not safe."

"Not safe? But that is ridicu-
lous. This hotel is . . ."

At this point the blast came.
My nerves were a wreck from
the alcohol.

"See?" I screamed. "Not safe.
I knew they were going to blow
up!"

He stood paralyzed as I ran
from the lobby. Oh, well, never
say die. Another day, another ho-
tel. I swear I'm even beginning
to think like the not-men, curse
them.

Glmpauszn

Rochester, New York
September 25
Dear Joe:

I have it! It is done! In spite

A GLEEB FOR EARTH

105

of the alcohol, in spite of Blgf-
tury's niggling criticism, I have
succeeded. I now have developed
a form of mold, somewhat similar
to the antibiotics of this world,
that, transmitted to the human
organism, will cause a disease
whose end will be swift and fatal.

First the brain will dissolve and
then the body will fall apart.
Nothing in this world can stop
the spread of it once it is loose.
Absolutely nothing.

We must use care. Stock in as
much gin as you are able. I will
bring with me all that I can.
Meanwhile I must return to my
original place of birth into this
world of horrors. There I will
secure the gateway, a large mir-
ror, the vibrational point at
which we shall meet and slowly
climb the frequency scale to
emerge into our own beautiful,
now secure world. You and I to-
gether, Joe, conquerors, liberators.

You say you eat little and drink

as much as you- can. The same
with me. Even in this revolting
world I am a sad sight. My not-
world senses falter. This is the
last letter. Tomorrow I come
with the gateway. When the gin
is gone, we will plant the mold in
the hotel where you live.

In only a single gleeb it will
begin to work. The men of this
queer world will be no more. But
we can't say we didn't have some
fun, can we, Joe?

And just let Blgftury make one
crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll have
hgutry before the ghjdksla!

Glmpauszn
Dear Editor:

These guys might be queer
drunk hopheads. But if not? If
soon brain dissolve, body fall
apart, how long have we got?
Please, anybody who knows an-
swer, write to me — Ivan Smern-
da, Plaza Ritz Arms — how long is
a gleeb?

— CHARLES SCHAFHAUSER

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106

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

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NOT FIT
FOR CHILDREN

By EVELYN E. SMITH

Trading with the natives was
like taking candy from a kid
—but which were the natives?

Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS

PPON lowered himself hast-
ily to the orlop and ran
toward me. "Hurry up,
Qan!" he projected on a sub-
level, trying to escape my moth-
er's consciousness. "They're
coming! All the others are up al-
ready."

"Who's coming?" my mother

108

wanted to know, but her full in-
terest was absorbed by her work,
and she gave us only the side of
her mind. "You youngsters really
must learn to think clearly."

"Yes'm." Ppon projected suit-
able youthful embarrassment, but
on a lower level he was giggling.
Later I must give him another

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

warning; we young ones could
not yet separate the thought
channels efficiently, so it was
more expedient not to try.

"The zkuchi are coming," I lied
glibly, knowing that the old ones
accept inanity as merely a sign
of immaturity, "on hundreds of
golden wings that beat faster than
light."

Grandfather removed a part of
his mind from his beloved work.
"The zkuchi are purely mytho-
logical creatures," he thought
crossly. "You're old enough to
know better than that . . . Qana,"
he appealed to my mother, "why
do you let him believe in such
nonsense?"

"The zkuchi are part of our
cultural heritage, Father," she
projected gently. "We must not
let the young ones forget our heri-
tage. Particularly if we are to be
here for some time."

"It seems to me you're unnec-
essarily pessimistic," he com-
plained. "You know I've never
failed you yet. We shall get back,
I promise you. It's just that the
transmutation takes time."

"But it's taken such a long time
already," she thought sadly.
"Sometimes I begin to have
doubts." Then she apparently re-
membered that serious matters
should not be discussed before us
young ones. As if we didn't know
what was going on. "Run along
and play, children," she advised,

"but don't forget to check the at-
mosphere first."

Grandfather started to excogi-
tate something about how it
would be better if Ppon went and
helped his father while I stayed
and did my lessons — you never
seem to escape from lessons any-
where in the Universe — but we
got away before he could finish.

rpOPSIDE, the others were
■*- jumping up and down in their
excitement. Ztul, the half-wit,
was so upset he actually spoke:
"Hurry, Qan, the tourists are
coming!"

"Ztul, you must never, never
make words aloud!" I thought
fiercely. "The old ones might hear
and find out about the game."

"It's a harmless game," Ppon
contributed. "And useful, too.
Your grandfather needs the
stuff."

"Yes," I agreed, "but perhaps
the old ones wouldn't see it that
way. They might even stop the
game. Adults have funny ideas,
and there's no use asking for trou-
ble."

There was a chorus of assent-
ing thought from the others. All
of us had our family troubles.

We got to work. Quickly we
arranged the interiors of the shel-
ters which we had cleverly built
out of materials borrowed from
below when the old ones' percep-
tions were directed elsewhere. The

NOT FIT FOR CHI LDREN

109

essential structure of the materi-
als had not been changed and
could easily be replaced when the
time came, but there was no use
having to give involved explana-
tions. The old ones never seemed
to understand anything.

At first We had just built the
shelters as play huts, but when
the first tourists had misunder-
stood, we had improved upon the
original misconception. Now we
had a regular street full of rude
dwellings. Lucky for us the old
ones never came topside.

As the little spaceship landed,
Ppon and I and four of the others
were ready at its door to form a
welcoming committee. The rest
dispersed to play villagers. The
others took turns alternating the
two roles, but I, of course, was
always leader. After all, I'd made
up the game.

Two members of the crew
dropped lightly out of the ship
and slid a ramp into place. Then
the passengers — there was a siz-
able group this time, I noted with
satisfaction — came, followed by
Sam, the guide, a grizzled old hu-
man. He grinned at us. We were
old friends, for he'd been leading
these tours for ten of their Earth
years.

The passengers stopped at the
foot of the ramp and Sam ran
forward to face them. By now we
were used to the appearance of
the human beings — small, binoc-

ular, with smooth, pasty skins —
although they had really fright-
ened us when we first laid eyes
on them.

"IVTOW, you see, folks," Sam
-*- ' bellowed through his mega-
phone, "the scientists don't know
everything. They said life could
not exist out here in the Asteroid
Belt — and, behold, life! They said
these little planets were too small,
had too little gravity to hold an
atmosphere. But you just breathe
in that air, as pure and fresh and
clean as the atmosphere of our
own Earth! Speaking of gravity,
you'll notice that we're walking,
not floating. Matter of fact, you'll
notice it's even a little hard to
walk; you seem a bit heavier than
at home. And they said there
would be hardly any gravity. No,
folks, those scientists know a lot
of things, I won't deny that, but
they sure don't know every-
thing."

"Amazing!" a small, bespec-
tacled male passenger said. "I
can hardly believe my own
senses!"

"Watch out for him," Ppon
projected to me. "I think he's a
scientist of some kind."

"Don't teach your ancestor to
levitate," I conceptualized back.

Of course what struck the pas-
sengers first was neither the at-
mosphere nor the gravity; it was
us. They never failed to be sur-

110

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

prised, although the travel fold-
ers should have shown them what
to expect. One of the folders had
a picture of me, amusingly crude
and two-dimensional, it's true,
but not entirely unflattering. I'm
not really purple, just a sort of
tender fuchsia, but what could
you expect from the rudimentary
color processes they used? Sam
had let me have the original and
I always wished I could show it
to Mother, but I couldn't without
having to explain where it had
come from.

"They're so cute!" a thin fe-
male screamed. "Almost like big
squirrels, really, except for all
those arms." Her teeth protruded
more than those of the small ro-
dent she was thinking about, or
than mine, for that matter.

"Be careful, ma'am," the guide
warned her. "They speak Eng-
lish."

"They do? How clever of them.
Why, they must be quite intelli-
gent, then."

"They are of a pretty. high or-
der of intelligence," the guide
agreed, "although their methods
of reasoning have always baffled
scientists. Somehow they seem to
sense scientists, think of them as
their enemies, and just clam up
entirely."

"I think they're just simply too
cute," she said, gazing at me
fondly.

"Ah, srrk yourself, madam," I

excogitated, confident that hu-
mans were non-telepathic.

CHE looked a little disturbed,
^ though; I'd better watch my-
self. After all, as leader I had to
set a good example.

"This here is Qan," the guide
introduced me. "Headman or
chief or something of the tribe.
He is always on hand to greet us."

"Welcome, travelers from a
distant star," I intoned, wrap-
ping my mother's second-best
cloak more impressively about
me, "to the humble land of the
Gchi. Come in peace, go in
peace."

"Why, he speaks excellent
English," the scientist exclaimed.

"They pick up things very
fast," Sam explained.

"Natives can be very, very
shrewd," a stout female com-
mented, clutching her handbag
tightly.

"And now," Sam said, "we will
visit the rude dwellings of this
simple, primitive, but hospitable
people."

"People!" Ppon projected.
"You better mind your language,
Buster! People, indeed!"

"Our friend Qan will lead the
way." Sam waved toward me.

I smiled back at him, but didn't
move.

"Whatsa matter?" he hissed.
"Don't you trust me? Your old
pal Sam?"

NOT FIT FOR CHILDREN

111

"No," I whispered back. "Last
time I let you pay me at the end
of the tour, the take was $3.75
short."

He tried another tack. "But
look, Qan, it's a hell of a job
getting all those coins together.
Why can't you take paper money
instead?"

"What good would paper
money do me up here?"

"What I can't figure out is
what good the metal does you up
here, either."

I beamed. "We eat it."

Muttering to himself, he walk-
ed over to the ship and called
one of the crewmen. They drag-
ged a bag out of the ship's hold.
Puffing, they laid it at my feet.
I tossed it to Ztul.

"Count it," I ordered out loud,
"and if there's any missing, no
one leaves this planet alive." I
snarled ferociously.

Everybody laughed. It was part
of the act.

"You will notice," Sam an-
nounced as we led the way down
the street, "that the Gchi are all
about the same size. No young
ones among them. We don't know
whether this is because they re-
produce differently from us, or
because they have concealed their
offspring."

"The children must be dear lit-
tle creatures," the toothy female
gushed. "If even the adults are
cute when they're seven or eight

feet tall, the little ones must be
simply precious . . . Tell me,
Chief, do you have any chil-
dren?"

"Don't understand," I grunted.
"Concept unfamiliar. Not know
what children is."

"Funny," remarked the scien-
tist, "he was speaking perfectly
good English before."

"Watch yourself, kid," Ppon
ideated warningly to me.

"Children are . . ." she began
and stopped. "They're — well, how
do you reproduce?"

¥>PON, the oosh-head, took it
■*■ upon himself to answer. "If
you'll just step into my hut, ma-
dam, I'll be delighted to show
you."

"If you ask me," the scientist
stated, "these are frauds."

"Whaddya mean frauds?" Sam
demanded indignantly.

"Human beings dressed up as
extraterrestrials. They speak too
good an English. Their concepts
are too .much like ours. Their
sense of humor is equally vul —
too similar."

"You and your big mouth!" I
projected to Ppon.

"Look who's thinking!" he ex-
cogitated back. I could see I'd
have to give him a mind-lashing
later.

It was up to me to save the
situation. "If you would like to
examine me more closely, sir," I

112 I

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

,'•'

2

NOT FIT FOR CHILDREN

113

addressed the scientist, "you will
see that I am not a human be-
ing."

He approached me dubiously.

"Closer," I said, looking him in
the eye, as I bared my teeth and
growled. "I have five eyes, sir,
and you will notice that I am
looking at you with each one of
them. I have seven arms, sir — v
here I reached out to grab him
" — and you will notice that they
are all living tissue."

"No, you couldn't be a human
being," he agreed, backing away
as soon as I released my grip,
"but the whole thing is . . . odd.
Very odd."

"If anthropologists on Earth
can't explain all the customs of
the primitives there," Sam tried
to placate him, "how can we ex-
plain the behavior of extraterres-
trials? Let's go into some of the
houses. The chief has kindly
given us his permission to look
around."

"Our houses are your houses,"
I stated, bowing graciously.

As always, the tourists grew
extremely enthusiastic about the
furniture in our simple dwellings.
"What lovely — er — things you
have," squirrel-tooth commented.
"What are they used for?"

"Well, the pryu is for the
mrach, of course," I explained
glibly, "and the wrooov is much
/ used for cvrking the budz, al-
though the ywrl is preferred by

the less discriminating.

"Oh," she said. "How I should
love to have one of the — 'wroov'
I think it was you said, for my
very own. I wonder whether . . ."

By a curious coincidence, Hsoj
arrived at this point, carrying a
tray full of things and stuff.

"Artifacts!" he shouted. "Nice
artifacts! Who wants to buy arti-
facts?"

A LL the tourists did. They
^*- were pretty good artifacts, if
I do say so myself. I'd made them
out of the junk I rescued from
our dustbins before the disinte-
gration unit got to work. Honest-
ly, I can't understand how the
old ones can complain about our
being wasteful and then go and
throw away all sorts of perfectly
useful things.

"You must pay the natives in
metal," the guide explained.
"They accept only coins."

"Why?" the stout female
wanted to know. "Do they really
eat metal?"

"I doubt it. One of them ate a
couple of pounds of Earth candy
a tourist gave him last time and
he seemed to enjoy it without ill
effects."

"Without ill effects!" Ppon ex-
cogitated. "You should have seen
Ztul afterward, boy!"

"Look, Mac." A short fat hu-
man offered Hsoj a small silver
coin and then five larger brown

114

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

ones. "Which would you rather
have?"

"Them." Hsoj pointed unhesi-
tatingly to the brown coins.

A smile rippled covertly
through the tourists.

"They're a simple and child-
like people, but really so good-
natured," Sam footnoted.

All of us gave simple good-
natured smiles as Hsoj accepted
the gift of the brown coins.

"Keep up the good work," I
projected. "We can use all the
copper we can get."

"You like metal, dear?" a fe-
male asked Hsoj. She unfastened
a belt from around her waist.
"Would you take this in ex-
change for some of your pretty
things?"

"Say 'yes,' " I conceptualized.
"That's steel. Old and worthless
to her, but not to us."

"I know, I know," Hsoj ideated
impatiently. "What makes you
think you're the only one who
knows anything?"

Never had we got such a big
haul before, because everybody
seemed to have all sorts of metal
stuff on him that he valued less
than coins.

Now came the sad part of the
spiel. "Remember, folks, these
simple, honest individuals you
see before you are but the scanty
remnants of a once-proud race
who spanned the skies. For their
ancestors must have been godlike

indeed to have erected such edi-
fices as that commanding struc-
ture over there." Sam pointed to
the portable atmosphere machine
which was set up several yebil
away to give our playground
proper air. "Once glorious, now
fallen into ruin and decay."

"You're going to catch muh
from the old ones," Ppon ideated,
"when they find out you haven't
been keeping the machine clean."

"Don't be a silly oosh," I
thought back with a mental grin.
"I'm using the atmosphere ma-
chine to create atmosphere."

"You're getting to be as stupid
as a human," he thought in dis-
gust.

"May we go inside?" the sci-
entific passenger asked Sam.

"No, indeed," I said hastily.
"It is our temple, sacred to the
gods. No unbeliever may set foot
in it."

"What are the basic tenets of
your religion?" the scientist want-
ed to know.

"We do not talk about it," I
said with dignity. "It is tabu.
Bad form."

" A ND now," announced the

■**■ guide, glancing at his watch,

"we have just time for the war

dance before we leave for Vesta."

"Against whom are they plan-
ning a war?" asked a small pas-
senger, turning pale.

"It's a vestigial ritual," Sam

NOT FIT FOR CHILDREN

115

explained quickly, "dating back
to the days when there were other
— er — when there was somebody
to fight. Just an invocation to the
gods . . . general stuff like that
. . . nothing to be afraid of. Isn't
it so, Qan?"

"Quite so," I replied, folding
all my arms across my mother's
cloak. "Come in peace, go in
peace. Our motto."

We started the dance. It would-
n't have got us a passing mark
in first grade, where we'd learned
it rffi ago, but our version of the
dance of the zkuchi was plenty
good enough for the tourists.

"If I ever visit Earth, Janna
forbid," I thought to Ppon as we
executed an intricate caracole,
"I'm going to wear earplugs all
the time."

The dance finished.

"Now everybody get together!"
Sam shouted, clapping his hands
to round up his charges. "We are
about to leave little Gchik."

"He should only know what
gchik means," Ppon sniggered
mentally.

"Little Gchik is barren, dying,
its past glories all but forgotten,"
Sam almost sobbed, "but still its
simple, warm-hearted inhabitants
carry on bravely . . ."

"Couldn't we do something for
them?" suggested the stout fe-
male.

Everybody murmured assent.
This contingency arose all too

often — a result of our being just
too lovable.

"No one can help us," I said in
a deep voice, pulling the cloak
over my face. The idzik feathers
trimming it tickled like crazy.
"We must dree our own weird
alone. Besides, the air of Gchik
has a deleterious effect upon hu-
man beings if they're exposed to
it for longer than four hours."

There was a mad scramble to
reach the ship.

"Stand by the atmosphere ma-
chine, Hsoj," I instructed, "to
poison a little air in case any-
body wants to take a sample."

The scientist actually did, in
a little bottle he seemed to have
brought along for the purpose;
but he got off, the "asteroid" as
rapidly as the rest of them, after
that.

We watched the spaceship
dwindle to a silver mote in the
distance.

"Whew," Ppon thought, sink-
ing to the surface. "That war
dance sure takes a lot out of a
fellow."

^TiHEN he conceptualized in-
-*- dignantly as he — as well as
the rest of us — floated off the top
level. "Somebody's cut the grav-
ity!"

"Must be Grandfather," I men-
talized. "I suppose he thinks
we've been out long enough, so
he's warning us, just as if we

116

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

were a bunch of infants. I guess
we'd better go inside, though.
Let's not forget to turn off the
atmosphere, fellows. It uses too
much energy and the old ones
won't let us play topside any
more."

"You know everything, don't
you, Qan?" Ppon sneered.

I ignored him. "Pretty good
haul," I excogitated as I hefted
the bags of metal. "Here, Ztul,
catch!"

"You always make me carry
everything!" he complained.

Grandfather caught us as we
lowered ourselves from the air-
lock. I figured he must have been
getting suspicious or otherwise
he'd never have left his beloved
engines.

"What's this you youngsters
have?" he wanted to know,
pouncing on our bags. "Metal,
eh? I suppose you were going to
make another fake meteorite out
of it for me, were you?"

"I thought you wanted metal,
Grandfather," I sulked. He could
have .been more appreciative.

"Certainly I want metal. You
know I need it to get the drive
working again. But what I want
to know is where you got it from.
I'd think you stole it, but how
could even little muhli like you
steal out here in space?"

"They have always brought
you metal from time to time,
Father," Mother projected, com-

ing out as she overthought us.
"So clever of them, I always
thought."

"Yes, but I've been thinking
that their encountering so many
meteorites was a singularly curi-
ous coincidence. And they were
curious meteorites, too. I suppose
the young ones made them them-
selves."

"But out of what, Father? You
know we don't have any spare
metal on the ship. That's why
you haven't been able to get the
repairs finished before. Where
else could they get the metal but
from meteorites?"

"I don't know where they get
their metal from, but certainly
not from meteorites. These pieces
here are artifacts. Look, the metal
has been more or less refined and
roughly formed into shapes with
crude designs upon them. Tell
me the truth, Qan, where did you
get these?"

"Some people gave them to us,"
I replied sullenly.

"People?" asked my mother.
"What are people?"

"Natives of this solar system.
They call themselves people."

"Nonsense!" my grandfather
interjected. "It's just another one
of your fantasies. You know what
the astronomers say — none of the
planets of this little system is ca-
pable of supporting life."

"They come from the third
planet," I persisted, trying to

NOT FIT FOR CHILDREN

117

keep from disgracing myself by
fllwng in front of the other young
ones. "There is life there. All of
us have seen them. Besides, there
is the metal."

My companions chorused
agreement.

"You see, Father," my mother
smiled, stroking my head with
three hands, "the wise ones are
not always right."

]%/■" Y grandfather nodded his
-L" head slowly. "It is not im-
possible, I suppose. I hope it is
true that these — people gave you
and your friends the metal, Qan."

"Oh, yes, Grandfather," I
thought anxiously. "Of their own
free will."

"Well — " he continued, not al-
together convinced — "this lot
should be enough to repair the
engines. Perhaps, when we take
off, we should have a look at the
youngsters' third planet on the
way home."

"But this trip has taken such a
long time already, Father," my
mother protested. "Almost a rfi;
the young ones have missed near-
ly two semesters of school. And
Qan has been getting some very
peculiar ideas — from those
people, I suppose."

"But if there is some sort
of intelligent life," Grandfather
thought, "it's our duty to visit it.
Next time we need to stop the
ship for repairs, it might be more

convenient to put in at this third
planet instead of just hanging out
there in space. And the young
ones say the natives seem to be
friendly."

"I'd like to see Sam's face
when he comes back and finds
his 'asteroid' gone," I conceptual-
ized.

"Yes," Ppon agreed, with the
edge of his mind, but his main
channel was turned in another
direction. "That is the end of this
game now, you know. In the next
game / shall be leader."

"Oh, yes?" I thought back.
"I'm the leader and I'm staying
leader, because I am the biggest
and cleverest."

"Children!" my mother pro-
tested, distressed. "I'm afraid
you've picked up some really
unpleasant concepts from those
dreadful natives."

"Come, come, Qana," Grand-
father ideated, "we mustn't be
intolerant." .

"Perhaps not," she replied with
heat, "and I know the natives
probably don't know any better,
but I am not going to have my
young one or anyone else's con-
taminated. Visit the third planet
if you wish, but not this time.
You'll have to make a special
trip for it. I'm not going to let
you stop off there while the
young ones are aboard. It's ob-
viously no fit place for children."
—EVELYN E. SMITH

118

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

GALAXY'S

5 Star Shelf

JUDGMENT NIGHT by C. L.
Moore. Gnome Press, New York,
1952. 344 pages, $3.50.

¥TERE are five novelets by
■■■•*• Catherine Moore, wife of
Henry Kuttner and a first-rate
writer in her own right. I en-
joyed all the stories except one,
and even that, a space opera
called "Paradise Street," is su-
perior to most of its breed.

But the other four are very
good indeed. "Judgment Night,"
nearly novel-length, is a gaudy,
somewhat overrich science-fan-
tasy in the grand tradition. There
is a galactic empress whose re-
gime is attacked from without

and within; the narrative of her
struggle — and her loves — is highly
satisfying.

"Promised Land" deals with
some of the possible methods
that will have to be developed to
enable men to live far from the
Sun — on Ganymede, in this in-
stance. The plot weaves about the
machinations of the boss of the
satellite, a monster in body — and
in mind.

"The Code" describes what
might happen if one could re-
verse time in a human being and
start him back toward babyhood.
Instead of becoming a baby, he
becomes a complete alien, an emi-
grant to another dimension.

• ••••SHELF

119

"Heir Apparent" tells of "inte-
grator teams" that, by combining
the powers of several specialized
minds into one powerful instru-
ment, are able to keep an over-
complex civilization going.

A rich collection, indeed —
varied, imagination - stretching,
written without cheapness or
shallowness. I don't think you
should miss this one.

THE NEXT MILLION YEARS
by Charles Galton Darwin.
Doubleday & Co., New York,
1952. 210 pages, $2.75

rpHIS regrettable little book
■*- sets before us the old argu-
ment of the eugenicists that the
breed is deteriorating because the
"top brains" are not reproducing
themselves.

Charles Darwin's elderly grand-
son is also Francis Galton's god-
son, and Galton was one of the
founders of eugenics theories.
The present author has forgotten
nothing his tutor taught him
about the inherent superiority of
the successful and the poor breed-
ing material of the masses.

The book also touches upon
the worldwide wastage of our
natural resources, and the inevit-
able power famine that will result
in a few centuries. He believes
solar energy will be the solu-
tion. Atomic energy from non-
radio-active sources? Sir Charles

doesn't give it a thought.

Not once is space travel even
mentioned! The physical and psy-
chological evolution of the race in
1,000,000 years is inevitable, yet
the author blandly ignores it.

As a prediction, the book is
practically outdated right now.
Worse still, it's dull reading, as
pedestrian as a bicyclist with a
flat tire — traveling backward on
a jet highway to the future.

LIMBO by Bernard Wolfe. Ran-
dom House, New York, 1952. 438
pages, $3.50

'■''HIS is an exasperating, over-
-*• written, confused, revolting
and fascinating book. It shocks,
disgusts, terrifies and not infre-
quently bores. It is as enormous
— and enormously messy — as our
own situation as human beings
let loose amid the destroying
machines of our own creation.

It contains some of the most
pretentious writing in the history
of the novel — and some of the
most biting and important satire.

Voluntary amputation and re-
placement of limbs with atom-
powered prosthetics creates a new
elite in this future world — an elite
in which women (who are not
permitted the honor of amputa-
tion) become the active lovers
and the preservers of the race.
The theory behind the vol-amps,
as they are called, is that they

120

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

cannot carry on war, and that
thus they create permanent peace.
Hmmm!

The time is around 1980, after
World War III. There is "Union"
(the remains of Soviet Eurasia)
and "Strip" (a section of the
U.S.A. including Denver to the
Mississippi and little more).
There is the inevitable conflict
between them — temporarily sub-
limated in athletic contests among
teams of the vol-amps. There
are widespread pre-frontal lo-
botomies to remove aggressions;
flaming sexuality; super-atom-
bombing; and endless juvenile at-
tempts at mature philosophy.

Here are some of the men
whose ideas and systems Wolfe
has cannibalized to give the book
an appearance of superior intel-
lectual satire :

William James, whose Moral
Equivalent of War becomes the
basis of much vol-amp political
jargon; Norbert Wiener, whose
cypernetics theories |aid the
foundation for the astonishing
atom-powered arms and legs of
the vol-amps; Korzybsky (se-
mantics) ; Burnham (the mana-
gerial society); Koestler (Yogis
and Commissars); Hubbard (di-
anetics); Wilhelm Reich (orgone
boxes) ; Morgenstern (and his
theory of games, out of which
came EMSIAC, the computer
that ran World War III with no
help from people) ; Claude Shan-

non; Thomas Mann; Andre Gide;
Dostoyevsky (and his ghastly
Notes from the Underground) ;
and Marx and Darwin and Des-
cartes and Freud — Freud, in a
way, is the helpless master of the
whole crazy puppet show.

The style is really incredible.
There are innumerable puns, good
and bad; slashing wit; dull
stretches which somehow you
don't dare skip because some-
thing good may be buried there;
vomit; orgasms; rape (of male by
female!) and so on and so on;
and finally World War IV, and
only the Lord knows what after
that.

Once you get past the first 60
pages, which are boring but im-
portant, you find yourself caught
up in this impossible-to-describe
anti -Utopia and you can't quit.
It's got you; and before you're
done, you really have been pulled
through a knothole; you're bleed-
ing, bludgeoned, bewildered — and
hypnotized.

I suppose it's actually a bad
book; most of the conventional
reviewers seem to think so. How-
ever, it is also a book for the
bitter present, a book carrying
harsh warnings of a more horrify-
ing future.

Incidentally, it is NOT for chil-
dren! Whether it is for you or not
is a matter you must decide for
yourself. I liked it as much as I
detested it.

• • * * • SHELF

121

CURRENTS OF SPACE by
Isaac Asimov. Doubleday & Co.,
New York, 1952. 217 pages, $2,275

A SIMOV here tells of a minor
•*"*■ episode in the history of the
Trantor Empire, so brilliantly
pictured in the Foundation series.

A "psycho-probed" "spatio-
analyst" (one of those new-
fangled scientists of tomorrow)
has learned that the planet
Fiorina, source of the miracle
textile "kyrt," is about to be
destroyed when its sun goes nova.
The scientist is put out of com-
mission to keep the fact from
being known. The book tells how
this attempt by the master-race
of Sarkians who had enslaved the
Florinians to foil the evacuation
of the threatened planet was de-
feated, and the Florinians them-
selves were given their freedom.

One of Asimov's lesser efforts,
but still considerably above the
average space opera.

THE LEGION OF TIME by
Jack Williamson. Fantasy Press,
Reading, Pa., 1952. 252 pages,
$3.00

TTERE are two traditional little
*■*- space-time novelets from the
adolescence of science fiction.
Though now strictly for kids, they
are naively effective despite the
painful awkwardness of the writ-
ing.

The title story perfectly exem-
plifies a 17 -year-old's wish-fan-
cies. Denny Lanning is "thinking
about time." This makes it
possible for "Lethonee" (perfect
name for a dream girl!) to appear
before him from another space-
time world and tell him that the
future of both his and her world
depends on him — his ability to
defeat "the evil flower of the
Gyronchi." To find how he does
it, read the book and enjoy a
return to the youth of your
literacy.

"After World's End" is more
of the same, only a bit bloodier;
both the hero and the heroine die,
believing they will meet after
death. They have been to the end
of Earth's time together, suffered
all sorts of horrors, and finally
expire in a mysterious blaze of
glory that I couldn't quite figure
out.

— GROFF COINKLIN

122

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

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JUNKYARD

By CLIFFORD D. SIMAK

Illustrated by SIBLEY

One thing this planet could not be accused
of was lack of hospitality. Anytime it had
company, it wanted them to stay — for good!

T

I — but they didn't know a thing,

not a single thing, for certain.

HEY had solved the mys- That wasn't the way a planetary

tery — with a guess, a very survey team usually did a job.

erudite and educated guess Usually they nailed it down and

JUNKYARD

125

wrung a lot of information out
of it and could parade an impres-
sive roll of facts. But here there
was no actual, concrete fact be-
yond the one that would have
been obvious to a twelve-year-
old child.

Commander Ira Warren was
worried about it. He said as much
to Bat Ears Brady, ship's cook
and slightly disreputable pal of
his younger days. The two of
them had been planet-checking
together for more than thirty
years. While they stood at oppo-
site poles on the table of organi-
zation, they were able to say to
one another things they could not
have said to any other man
aboard the survey ship or have
allowed another man to say to
them.

"Bat Ears," said Warren, "I'm
just a little worried."

"You're always worried," Bat
Ears retorted. "That's part of the
job you have."

"This junkyard business . . ."

"You wanted to get ahead,"
said Bat Ears, "and I told you
what would happen. I warned
you you'd get yourself weighed
down with worry and authority
and pomp — pomp — "

"Pomposity?"

"That's the word," said Bat
Ears. "That's the word, exactly."

"I'm not pompous, Warren
contradicted.

"No, you're worried about this

junkyard business. I got a bottle
stowed away. How about a little
drink?"

WARREN waved away the
thought. "Someday I'll bust
you wide open. Where you hide
the stuff, I don't know, but every
trip we make . . ."

"Now, Ira! Don't go losing
your lousy temper."

"Every trip we make, you car-
ry enough dead weight of liquor
to keep you annoyingly aglow
for the entire cruise."

"It's baggage," Bat Ears in-
sisted. "A man is allowed some
baggage weight. I don't have
hardly nothing else. I just bring
along my drinking."

"Someday," said Warren sav-
agely, "it's going to get you
booted off- the ship about five
light-years from nowhere."

The threat was an old one. It
failed to dismay Bat Ears.

"This worrying you're doing,"
Bat Ears said, "ain't doing you
no good."

"But the survey team didn't do
the job," objected Warren. "Don't
you see what this means? For the
first time in more than a hundred
years of survey, we've found what
appears to be evidence that some
other race than Man has achiev-
ed space flight. And we don't
know a thing about it. We should
know. With all that junk out
there, we'd ought to be able by

126

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

this time to write a book about
it."

Bat Ears spat in contempt.
"You mean them scientists of
ours."

The way he said "scientist"
made it a dirty word.

"They're good," said Warren.
"The very best there is."

"Remember the old days, Ira?"
asked Bat Ears. "When you was
second looey and you used to
come down and we'd have a drink
together and . . ."

"That has nothing to do with
it."

"We had real men in them
days. We'd get ourselves a club
and go hunt us up some natives
and beat a little sense into them
and we'd get more facts in half
a day than these scientists, with
all their piddling around, will get
in a month of Sundays."

"This is slightly different,"
Warren said. "There are no na-
tives here."

There wasn't, as a matter of
fact, much of anything on this
particular planet. It was strictly
a low-grade affair and it wouldn't
amount to much for another bil-
lion years. The survey, under-
standably, wasn't too interested
in planets that wouldn't amount
to much for another billion years.

Its surface was mostly rock
outcroppings and tumbled boul-
der fields. In the last half mil-
lion years or so, primal plants

had gotten started and were do-
ing well. Mosses and lichens crept
into the crevices and crawled
across the rocks, but aside from
that there seemed to be no life.
Although, strictly speaking, you
couldn't be positive, for no one
had been interested in the planet.
They hadn't looked it over and
they ' hadn't searched for life;
everyone had been too interested
in the junkyard.

They had never intended to
land, but had circled the planet,
making routine checks and enter-
ing routine data in the survey
record.

Then someone at a telescope
had seen the junkyard and they'd
gone down to investigate and had
been forthrightly pitchforked into
a maddening puzzle.

rpHEY had called it the junk-
-*• yard and that was what it was.
Strewn about were what prob-
ably were engine parts, although
no one was quite sure. Pollard,
the mech engineer, had driven
himself to the verge of frenzy try-
ing to figure out how to put some
of the parts together. He finally
got three of them assembled,
somehow, and they didn't mean
a thing, so he tried to take them
apart again to figure out how he'd
done it. He couldn't get them
apart. It was about that time that
Pollard practically blew his top.
The engine parts, if that was

JUNKYARD

127

what they were, were scattered
all over the place, as if someone
or something had tossed them
away, not caring where they fell.
But off to one side was a pile of
other stuff, all neatly stacked,
and it was apparent even to the
casual glance that this stuff must
be a pile of supplies.

There was what more than
likely was food, though it was a
rather strange kind of food (if
that was what it was), and
strangely fabricated bottles of
plastic that held a poison liquid,
and other stuff that was fabric
and might have been clothing,
although it gave one the shud-
ders trying to figure out what
sort of creatures would have worn
that kind of clothing and bundles
of metallic bars, held together in
the bundles by some kind of gra-
vitational attraction instead of
the wires that a human would
have used to tie them in bundles.
And a number of other objects
for which there were no names.

"They should have found the
answer," Warren said. "They've
cracked tougher nuts than this.
In the month we've been here,
they should have had that en-
gine running."

"If it is an engine," Bat Ears
pointed out.

"What else could it be?"

"You're getting so that you
sound like them. Run into some-
thing that you can't explain and

think up the best guess possible
and when someone questions you,
you ask what else it could be.
And that ain't proof, Ira."

"You're right, Bat Ears," War-
ren admitted. "It certainly isn't
proof and that's what worries me.
We have no doubt the junk out
there is a spaceship engine, but
we have no proof of it."

"Nobody's going to land a
ship," said Bat Ears testily, "and
rip out the engine and just throw
it away. If they'd done that, the
ship would still be here."

"But if that's not the answer,"
demanded Warren, "what is all
that stuff out there?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm not even
curious. I ain't the one that's wor-
rying."

He got up from the chair and
moved toward the door.

"I still got that bottle, Ira."

"No, thanks," Warren said.

He sat and listened to Bat
Ear's feet going down the stairs.

II

"■y-ENNETH SPENCER, the
•*■"- alien psychologist, came into
the cabin and sat down in the
chair across the desk from War-
ren.

"We're finally through," he
said.

"You aren't through," chal-
lenged Warren. "You haven't
even started."

128

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"We've done all we can."

Warren grunted at him. '

"We've run all sorts of tests,"
said Spencer. "We've got a book
full of analyses. We have a com-
plete photographic record and
everything is down on paper in
diagrams and notes and — "

"Then tell me: What is that
junk out there?"

"It's a spaceship engine."

"If it's an engine," Warren
said, "let's put it together. Let's
find out how it runs. Let's figure
out the kind of intelligence most
likely to have built it."

"We tried," replied Spencer.
"All of us tried. Some of us didn't
have applicable knowledge or
training, but even so we worked;
we helped the ones who had
training."

"I know how hard you
worked."

And they had worked hard,
only snatching stolen hours to
sleep, eating on the run.

"We are dealing with alien me-
chanics," Spencer said.

"We've dealt with other alien
concepts," Warren reminded him.
"Alien economics and alien reli-
gions and alien psychology . . ."

"But this is different."

"Not so different. Take Pol-
lard, now. He is the key man in
this situation. Wouldn't you have
said that Pollard should have
cracked it?"

"If it can be cracked, Pollard

is your man. He has everything —
the theory, the experience, the
imagination."

"You think we should leave?"
asked Warren. "That's what you
came in to tell me? You think
there is no further use of staying
here?"

"That's about it," Spencer ad-
mitted. .

"All right," Warren told him.
"If you say so, I'll take your
word for it. We'll blast off right
after supper. I'll tell Bat Ears to
fix us up a spread. A sort of
achievement dinner."

"Don't rub it in so hard," pro-
tested Spencer. "We're not proud
of what we've done."

Warren heaved himself out of
the chair.

"I'll go down and tell Mac to
get the engines ready. On the way
down, I'll drop in on Bat Ears
and tell him."

Spencer said, "I'm worried,
Warren."

"So am I. What is worrying
you?"

"Who are these things, these
other" people, who had the other
spaceship? They're the first, you
know, the first evidence we've
ever run across of another race
that had discovered space flight.
And what happened to them
here?"

"Scared?"

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"Not yet," said Warren. "I

JUNKYARD

129

probably will be when I have the
time to think it over."

He went down the stairs to talk
to Mac about the engines.

Ill

TTE found Mac sitting in his
-■--*- cubby hole, smoking his
blackened pipe and reading
his thumb-marked Bible.

"Good news," Warren said to
him.

Mac laid down the book and
took off his glasses.

"There's but one thing you
could tell me that would be good
news," he said.

"This is it. Get the engines
ready. We'll be blasting off."

"When, sir? Not that it can be
too soon."

"In a couple of hours or so,"
said Warren. "We'll eat and get
settled in. I'll give you the word."

The engineer folded the spec-
tacles and slid them in his pocket.
He tapped the pipe out in his
hand and tossed away the ashes
and put the dead pipe back be-
tween his teeth.

"I've never liked this place,"
he said.

"You never like any place."

"I don't like them towers."

"You're crazy, Mac. There
aren't any towers."

"The boys and me went walk-
ing," said the engineer. "We
found a bunch of towers."

"Rock formations, probably."

"Towers," insisted the engin-
eer doggedly.

"If you found some towers,"
Warren demanded, "why didn't
you report them?"

"And have them science bea-
gles go baying after them and
have to stay another month?"

"It doesn't matter," Warren
said. "They probably aren't tow-
ers. Who would mess around
building towers on this backwash
of a planet?"

"They were scary," Mac told
him. "They had that black look
about them. And the smell of
death."

"It's the Celt in you. The big,
superstitious Celt you are, rock-
eting through space from world
to world — and still believing in
banshees and spooks. The medie-
val mind in the age of science."

Mac said, "They fair give a
man the shivers."

They stood facing one another
for a long moment. Then War-
ren put out a hand and tapped
the other gently on the shoulder.

"I won't say a word about
them," he said. "Now get those
engines rolling."

IV

W/ARREN sat in silence at the
™ table's head, listening to the
others talk.

"It was a jury-rigged job," said

130

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Clyne, the physicist. "They tore
out a lot of stuff and rebuilt the
engine for some reason or other
and there was a lot of the stuff
they tore out that they didn't use
again. For some reason, they had
to rebuild the engine and they
rebuilt it simpler than it was be-
fore. Went back to basic princi-
ples and cut out the fancy stuff —
automatics and other gadgets like
that — but the one they rebuilt
must have been larger and more
unwieldy, less compact, than the
one that they ripped down. That
would explain why they left some
of their supplies behind."

"But," asked Dyer, the chem-
ist, "what did they jury-rig it
with? Where did they get the
material?"

Briggs, the metallurgist, said,
"This place crawls with ore. If
it wasn't so far out, it would be
a gold mine."

"We- saw no signs of mining,"
Dyer objected. "No signs of min-
ing or smelting and refining or
of fabrication."

"We didn't go exploring,"
Clyne pointed out. "They might
have done some mining a few
miles away from here and we'd
have never known it."

Spencer said, "That's the trou-
ble with us on this whole proj-
ect. We've adopted suppositions
and let them stand as fact. If
they had to do some fabrication,
it might be important to know a

little more about it."

"What difference does it
make?" asked Clyne. "We know
the basic facts — a spaceship land-
ed here in trouble, they finally
repaired their engines, and they
took off once again."

Old Doc Spears, down at the
table's end, slammed his fork on
his plate.

"You don't even know," he
said, "that it was a spaceship.
I've listened to you caterwauling
about this thing for weeks. I've
never seen so damn much motion
and so few results in all my born
days."

All of them looked a little sur-
prised. Old Doc was normally a
mild man and he usually paid
little attention to what was going
on, bumbling around on his regu-
lar rounds to treat a smashed
thumb or sore throat or some
other minor ailment. All of them
had wondered, with a slight sick-
ish feeling, how Old Doc might
perform if he faced a real emer-
gency, like major surgery, say.
They didn't have much faith in
him, but they liked him well
enough. Probably they liked him
mostly because he didn't mix into
their affairs.

And here he was, mixing right
into them truculently.

Lang, the communications
man, said, "We found the
scratches, Doc. You remember
that. Scratches on the rock. The

JUNKYARD

131

kind of scratches that a space-
ship could have made in land-
ing.

"Could have made," said Doc
derisively.

"Must have made!"

1~VLD Doc snorted and went on
^-^ with his eating, holding his
head down over the plate, nap-
kin tucked beneath his chin,
shoveling in the food with fork
and knife impartially. Doc was
noted as a messy eater.

"I have a feeling," Spencer
said, "that we may be off the
beaten track in thinking of this
as a simple repair job. From the
amount of parts that are down
there in the junkyard, I'd say
that they found it necessary to
do a redesigning job, to start from
the beginning and build an en-
tirely new engine to get them
out of here. I have a feeling that
those engine parts out there rep-
resent the whole engine, that if
we knew how, we could put
those parts together and we'd
have an engine."

"I tried it," Pollard answered.

"I can't quite buy the idea
that it was a complete redesign-
ing job," Clyne stated. "That
would mean a new approach
and some new ideas that would
rule out the earlier design and
all the parts that had been built
into the original engine as it
stood. The theory would ex-

plain why there are so many
parts strewn around, but it's just
not possible. You don't redesign
an engine when you're stranded
on a barren planet. You stick to
what you know."

Dyer said, "Accepting an
idea like redesigning sends you
back again to the problem of
materials."

"And tools," added Lang.
"Where would they get the
tools?"

"They'd probably have a ma-
chine shop right on board the
ship," said Spencer.

"For minor repairs," Lang
corrected. "Not the kind of
equipment you would need to
build a complete new engine."

"What worries me," said Pol-
lard, "is our absolute inability
to understand any of it. I tried
to fit those parts together, tried
to figure out the relationship of
the various parts — and there
must be some sort of relation-
ship, because unrelated parts
would make no sense at all. Fi-
nally I was able to fit three of
them together and that's as far
as I could get. When I got them
together, they didn't spell a
thing. They simply weren't go-
ing anywhere. Even with three
of them together, you were no
better off, no further along in
understanding, than before
you'd put them together. And
when I tried to get them apart,

132

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

I couldn't do that, either. You'd
think, once a man had got a thing
together, he could take it apart
again, wouldn't you?"

"It was an alien ship," Spencer
offered, "built by alien people,
run by alien engines."

"Even so," said Pollard, "there
should have been some basic idea
that we could recognize. In some
way or other, their engine should
have operated along at least one
principle that would be basic with
human mechanics. An engine is
a piece of mechanism that takes
raw power and controls it and
directs it into useful energy. That
would be its purpose, no matter
what race built it."

"The metal," said Briggs, "is
an alien alloy, totally unlike any-
thing we have ever run across.
You can identify the components,
all right, but the formula, when
you get it down, reads like a me-
tallic nightmare. It shouldn't
work. By Earth standards, it
wouldn't work. There's some se-
cret in the combination that I
can't even guess at."

Old Doc said, from the table's
end, "You're to be congratulated,
Mr. Briggs, upon your fine sense
of restraint."

"Cut it out, Doc," Warren or-
dered sharply, speaking for the
first time.

"All right," said Doc. "If that's
the way you want it, Ira, I will
cut it out."

STANDING outside the ship,
Warren looked across the
planet. Evening was fading into
night and the junkyard was no
more than a grotesque blotch of
deeper shadow on the hillside.

Once, not long ago, another
ship had rested here, just a little
way from where they rested now.
Another ship — another race.

And something had happened
to that ship, something that his
survey party had tried to ferret
out and had fa"iled to discover.

It had not been a simple repair
job; he was sure of that. No mat-
ter what any of them might say,
it had been considerably more
than routine repair.

There had been some sort of
emergency, a situation with a
strange urgency about it. They
had left in such a hurry that they
had abandoned some of their sup-
plies. No commander of any
spaceship, be he human or alien,
would leave supplies behind ex-
cept when life or death was in-
volved in his escape.

There was what appeared to be
food in the stack of supplies — at
least, Dyer had said that it was
food, although it didn't look edi-
ble. And there were the plastic-
like bottles filled with a poison
that might be, as like as not, the
equivalent of an alien whisky.
And no man, Warren said, leaves

JUNKYARD

133

food and whisky behind except
in the direst emergency.

He walked slowly down the
trail they'd beaten between the
ship's lock and the junkyard and
it struck him that he walked in
a silence that was as deep as the
awful stillness of far space. There
was nothing here to make any
sound at all. There was no life
except the mosses and the lichens
and the other primal plants that
crept among the rocks. In time
there would be other life, for the
planet had the air and water and
the basic ingredieflts for soil and
here, in another billion years or
so, there might arise a life econ-
omy as complex as that of Earth.

But a billion years, he thought,
is a long, long time.

He reached the junkyard and
walked its familiar ground, dodg-
ing the larger pieces of machinery
that lay all about, stumbling on
one or two of the smaller pieces
that lay unseen in the darkness.

'T^HE second time he stumbled,
-*■ he stooped and picked up the
thing he had stumbled on and it
was, he knew, one of the tools
that the alien race had left be-
hind them when they fled. He
could picture them, dropping
their tools and fleeing, but the
picture was not clear. He could
not decide what these aliens
might have looked like or what
they might have fled from.

He tossed the tool up and
down, catching it in his hand. It
was light and handy and un-
doubtedly there was some use for
it, but he did not know the use
nor did any of the others up there
in the ship. Hand or tentacle,
claw or paw — what appendage
had it been that had grasped the
tool? What mind lay behind the
hand or tentacle, claw or paw
that had grasped and used it?

He stood and threw back his
head and looked at the stars that
shone above the planet and they
were not the familiar stars he had
known when he was a child.

Far out, he thought, far out.
The farthest out that Man had
ever been.

A sound jerked him around,
the sound of running feet coming
down the trail.

"Warren!" cried a voice. "War-
ren! Where are you?"

There was fright in that voice,
the frantic note of panic that one
hears in the screaming of a terri-
fied child.

"Warren!"

"Here!" shouted Warren. "Over
here. I'm coming."

He swung around and hurried
to meet the man who was run-
ning in the dark.

The runner would have charg-
ed on past him if he had not put
out a hand and gripped him by
the shoulder and pulled him to a
halt.

134

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"Warren! Is that you?"

"What's the matter, Mac?"
asked Warren.

"I can't ... I can't . . . I . . ."

"What's wrong? Speak up! You
can't what, Mac?"

He felt the engineer's fumbling
hands reaching out for him,
grasping at his coat lapels, hang-
ing onto him as if the engineer
were a drowning man.

"Come on, come on," Warren
urged with the impatience of
alarm.

"I can't start the engines, sir,"
said Mac.

"Can't start the . . ."

"I can't start them, sir. And
neither can the others. None of
us can start them, sir."

"The engines!" said Warren,
terror rising swiftly. "What's the
matter with the engines?"

"There's nothing the matter
with the engines. It's us, sir. We
can't start them."

"Talk sense, man. Why can't
you?"

"We can't remember how.
We've forgotten how to start the
engines!"

VI

WTARREN switched on the
*' light above the desk and
straightened, seeking out the book
among the others on the shelf.

"It's right here, Mac," he said.
"I knew I had it here."

He found it and took it down
and opened it beneath the light.
He leafed the pages rapidly. Be-
hind him he could hear the tense,
almost terrified breathing of the
engineer.

"It's all right, Mac. It's all here
in the book."

He leafed too far ahead and
had to back up a page or two and
reached the place and spread the
book wide beneath the lamp.

"Now," he said, "we'll get
those engines started. It tells right
here . . ."

He tried to read and couldn't.

He could understand the words
all right and the symbols, but
the sum of the words he read
made little sense and the symbols
none at all.

He felt the sweat breaking out
on him, running down his fore-
head and gathering in his eye-
brows, breaking out of his armpits
and trickling down his ribs.

"What's the matter, Chief?"
asked Mac. "What's the matter
now?"

Warren felt his body wanting
to shake, straining every nerve
to tremble, but it wouldn't move.
He was frozen stiff.

"This is the engine manual,"
he said, his voice cold and low.
"It tells all about the engines —
how they operate, how to locate
trouble, how to fix them."

"Then we're all right," breath-
ed Mac, enormously relieved.

JUNKYARD

135

Warren closed the book.

"No, we aren't, Mac. I've for-
gotten all the symbols and most
of the terminology."

"You what!"

"I can't read the book," said
Warren.

VII

"TT just isn't possible," argued
-*■ Spencer.

"It's not only possible," War-
ren told him. "It happened. Is
there any one of you who can
read that book?"

They didn't answer him.

"If there's anyone who can,"
invited Warren, "step up and
show us how."

Clyne said quietly, "There's
none of us can read it."

"And yet," declared Warren,
"an hour ago any one of you —
any single one of you — probably
would have bet his life that he
not only could start the engines
if he had to, but could take the
manual if he couldn't and figure
how to do it."

"You're right," Clyne agreed.
"We would have bet our lives.
An hour ago we would have. It
would have been a safe, sure
bet."

"That's what you think," said
Warren. "How do you know how
long it's been since you couldn't
read the manual?"

"We don't, of course," Clyne

was forced to admit.

"There's something more. You
didn't find the answer to the
junkyard. You guessed an answer,
but you didn't find one. And you
should have. You know damn
well you should have."

Clyne rose to his feet. "Now
see here, Warren . . ."

"Sit down, John," said Spencer.
"Warren's got us dead to rights.
We didn't find an answer and we
know we didn't. We took a guess
and substituted it for the answer
that we didn't find. And Warren's
right about something else — we
should have found the answer."

Under any other circumstances,
Warren thought, they might have
hated him for those blunt truths,
but now they didn't. They just
sat there and he could see the
realization seeping into them.

Dyer finally said, "You think
we failed out there because we
forgot — just like Mac forgot."

"You lost some of your skills,"
replied Warren, "some of your
skills and knowledge. You work-
ed as hard as ever. You went
through the motions. You didn't
have the skill or knowledge any
more, that's all."

"And now?" asked Lang.

"I don't know."

"This is what happened to that
other ship," said Briggs emphat-
ically.

"Maybe," Warren said with
less conviction.

136

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"But they got away," Clyne
pointed out.

"So will we," promised War-
ren. "Somehow."

VIII

^W^HE crew of that other, alien
-*■ ship had evidently forgotten,
too. But somehow or other they
had blasted off — somehow or
other they had remembered, or
forced themselves to remember.
But if it had been the simple mat-
ter of remembering, why had they
rebuilt the engines? They could
have used their own.

Warren lay in his bunk, star-
ing into the blackness, knowing
that a scant two feet above his
head there was a plate of steel,
but he couldn't see the steel. And
he knew there was a way to start
the engines, a simple way once
you knew it or remembered it,
but he couldn't see that, either.

Man experienced incidents,
gathered knowledge, knew emo-
tion — and then, in the course of
time, forgot the incident and
knowledge and emotion. Life was
a long series of forgettings. Mem-
ories were wiped out and old
knowledge dulled and skill was
lost, but it took time to wipe it
out or dull it or lose it. You
couldn't know a thing one day
and forget it on the next.

But here on this barren world,
in some impossible way, the for-

getting had been speeded up. On
Earth it took years to forget an
incident or to lose a skill. Here
it happened overnight.

He tried to sleep and couldn't.
He finally got up and dressed
and went down the stairs, out
the lock into the alien night.

A low voice asked, "That you,
Ira?"

"It's me, Bat Ears. I couldn't
sleep. I'm worried."

"You're always worried," Bat
Ears. "It's an occu . . . occu . . ."

"Occupational?"

"That's it," said Bat Ears, ffic-
coughing just a little. "That's the
word I wanted. Worry is an oc-
cupational disease with you."

"We're in a jam, Bat Ears."

"There's been planets," Bat
Ears said, "I wouldn't of minded
so much being marooned on, but
this ain't one of them. This here
place is the tail end of creation."

They stood together in the
darkness with the sweep of alien
stars above them and the silent
planet stretching off to a vague
horizon.

"There's something here," Bat
Ears went on. "You can smell it
in the air. Them fancy-pants in
there said there wasn't nothing
here because they couldn't see
nothing and the books they'd
read said nothing much could
live on a planet that was just
rocks and moss. But, me, I've
seen planets. Me, I was planet-

JUNKYARD

137

5 J

checking when most of them was
in diapers and my nose can tell
me more about a planet than
their brains all lumped together,
which, incidentally, ain't a bad
idea."

"I think you're right," confess-
ed Warren. "I can feel it myself.
I couldn't before. Maybe it's just
because we're scared that we can
feel it now."

"I felt it before I was scared."
"We should have looked

138

around. That's where we made
our mistake. But there was so
much work to do in the junkyard
that we never thought of it."

"Mac took a little jaunt," said
Bat Ears. "Says he found some
towers."

"He told me about them, too."

"Mac was just a little green
around the gills when he was tell-
ing me."

"He told me he didn't like
them."

139

"If there was any place to run
to, Mac would be running right
now."

"In the morning," Warren said,
"we'll go and see those towers."

IX

' ■ ^HEY were towers, all right,
-*• and there were eight of them
in line, like watch towers that at
one time had stretched across the
planet, but something had hap-
pened and all the others had been
leveled except the eight that were
standing there.

They were built of undressed
native rock, crudely piled, with-
out mortar and with little wedges
and slabs of stone used in the
interstices to make the stones set
solid. They were the kind of tow-
ers that might have been built
by a savage race and they had an
ancient look about them. They
were about six feet at the base
and tapered slightly toward the
top and each of them was capped
by a huge flat stone with an enor-
mous boulder placed upon the
slab to hold it in its place.

Warren said to Ellis, "This is
your department. Take over."

The little archeologist didn't
answer. He walked around the
nearest tower and went up close
to it and examined it. He put out
his hands and acted as if he
meant to shake the tower, but it
didn't shake.

"Solid," he said. "Well built
and old."

"Type F culture, I t would say,"
guessed Spencer.

"Maybe less than that. No at-
tempt at an esthetic effect — pure
utility. But good craftsmanship."

Clyne said, "Its purpose is the
thing. What were the towers
built for?"

"Storage space," said Spencer.

"A marker," Lang contradict-
ed. "A claim marker, a cache
marker . . ."

"We can find the purpose,"
Warren said. "That is something
we needn't argue nor speculate
about. All we have to do is knock
off the boulder and lift the cap
and have a look inside."

He strode up to the tower and
started climbing it.

It was an easy thing to climb,
for there were niches in the stones
and hand and toe holds were not
too hard to find.

He reached the top.

"Look out below," he yelled,
and heaved at the boulder.

It rolled and then slowly set-
tled back. He braced himself and
heaved again and this time it
toppled. It went plunging off the
tower, smashed to the ground,
went rumbling down the slope,
gathering speed, hitting other
boulders in its path, zigzagging
with the deflection of its course,
thrown high into the air by the
boulders that it hit.

140

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

WARREN said, "Throw a
rope up to me. I'll fasten it
to the capstone and then we can
haul it off."

"We haven't got a rope," said
Clyne.

"Someone run back to the ship
and get one. I'll wait here till he
returns."

Briggs started back toward the
ship.

Warren straightened up. From
the tower he had a fine view of
the country and he swiveled slow-
ly, examining it.

Somewhere nearby, he thought,
the men — well, not men, but the
things that built these towers —
must have had their dwelling.
Within a mile or so there had
been at one time a habitation.
For the towers would have taken
time in building and that meant
that the ones who built them
must have had at least a semi-
permanent location.

But there was nothing to see —
nothing but tumbled boulder
fields and great outcroppings and
the blankets of primal plants
that ran across their surfaces.

What did they live on? Why
were they here? What would have
attracted them? What would
have held them here?

He halted in his pivoting,
scarcely believing what he saw.
Carefully he traced the form of
it, making sure that the light on
some boulder field was not be-

fuddling his vision.

It couldn't be, he told himself.
It couldn't happen three times.
He must be wrong.

He sucked in his breath and
held it and waited for the illu-
sion to go away.

It didn't go away. The thing
was there.

"Spencer," he called. "Spencer,
please come up here."

He continued watching it. Be-
low him, he heard Spencer scrab-
bling up the tower. He reached
down a hand and helped him.

"Look," Warren said, pointing.
"What is that out there?"

"A ship!" cried Spencer.
"There's another ship out there!"

T^HE spaceship was old, incred-
-■- ibly old. It was red with rust;
you could put your hand against
its metal hide and sweep your
hand across it and the flakes of
rust would rain down upon the
rock and your hand would come
away painted with rust.

The airlock once had been
closed, but someone or something
had battered a hole straight
through it without opening it,
for the rim was still in place
against the hull and the jagged
hole ran to the ship's interior.
For yards around the lock, the
ground was red with violently
scattered rust.

They clambered through the
hole. Inside, the ship was bright

JUNKYARD

141

and shining, without a trace of
rust, although there was a coat-
ing of dust over everything.
Through the dust upon the floor
was a beaten track and many iso-
lated footprints where the owners
of the prints had stepped out of
the path. They were alien tracks,
with a heavy heel and three
great toes, for all the world like
the tracks of a mighty bird or
some long-dead dinosaur.

The trail led through the ship
back to the engine room and
there the empty platform stood,
with the engines gone.

"That's how they got away,"
said Warren, "the ones who
junked their engines. They took
the engines off this ship and put
them in their ship and then they
took off."

"But they wouldn't know — "
argued Clyne.

"They evidently did," Warren
interrupted bluntly.

Spencer said, "They must have
been the ones. This ship has been
here for a long time — the rust
will tell you that. And it was
closed, hermetically sealed, be-
cause there's no rust inside. That'
hole was punched through the
lock fairly recently and the en-
gines taken."

"That means, then," said Lang,
"that they did junk their engines.
They ripped them out entire and
heaved them in the junkpile.
They tore them out and replaced

them with the engines from this
ship."

"But why?" asked Clyne.
"Why did they have to do it?"

"Because," said Spencer, "they
didn't know how to operate their
own engines."

"But if they didn't know how
to operate their engines, how
could they run this one?"

"TTE'S got you there," said
■"- Dyer. "That's one' that you
can't, answer."

"No, I can't," shrugged War-
ren. "But I wish I could, because
then we'd have the answer our-
selves."

"How long ago," asked Spen-
cer, "would you say this ship
landed here? How long would it
take for a spaceship hull to rust?"

"It's hard to tell," Slyne an-
swered. "It would depend on the
kind of metal they used. But you
can bet on this — any spaceship
hull, no matter who might have
built it, would be the toughest
metal the race could fabricate."

"A thousand years?" Warren
suggested.

"I don't know," said Clyne.
"Maybe a thousand years. May-
be more than that. You see this
dust. That's what's left of what-
ever organic material there was
in the ship. If the beings that
landed here remained within the
ship, they still are here in the
form of dust."

142

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

Warren tried to think, tried to
sort out the chronology of the
whole thing.

A thousand years ago, or thou-
sands of years ago, a spaceship
had landed here and had not got
away.

Then another spaceship landed,
a thousand or thousands of years
later, and it, too, was unable to
get away. But it finally escaped
when the crew robbed the first
ship of its engines and substituted
them for the ones that had
brought it here.

Then years, or months, or days
later, the Earth survey ship had
landed here and it, too, couldn't
get away — because the men who
ran it couldn't remember how to
operate its engines.

He swung around and strode
from the engine room, leaving the
others there, following the path in
the dust back to the shattered
lock.

And just inside the port, sitting
on the floor, making squiggles
in the dust with an awkward
finger, sat Briggs, who had gone
back to the ship to get a length
of rope.

"Briggs," said Warren sharply.
"Briggs, what are you doing
here?"

Briggs looked up with vacant,
laughing eyes.

"Go away," he said.

Then he went back to making
squiggles in the dust.

XI

T\OC SPEARS said, "Briggs
*-* reverted to childhood. His
mind is wiped as clean as a one-
year-old's. He can talk, which is
about the only difference between
a child and him. But his vocabu-
lary is limited and what he says
makes very little sense."

"He can be taught again?"
asked Warren.

*'I don't know."

"Spencer had a look at him.
What does Spencer say?"

"Spencer said a lot," Doc told
him. "It adds up, substantially,
to practically total loss of mem-
ory."

"What can we do?"

"Watch him. See he doesn't
get hurt. After a while we might
try re-education. He may even
pick up some things by himself.
Something happened to him.
Whether whatever it was that
took his memory away also in-
jured his brain is something I
can't say for sure. It doesn't ap-
pear injured, but without a lot of
diagnostic equipment we don't
have, you can't be positive."

"There's no sign of injury?"

"There's not a single mark
anywhere," said Doc. "He isn't
hurt. That is, not physically. It's
only his mind that's been injured.
Maybe not his mind, either — just
his memory gone."

"Amnesia?"

JUNKYARD

143

"Not amnesia. When you have
that, you're confused. You are
haunted by the thought that you
have forgotten something. You're
all tangled up. Briggs isn't con-
fused or tangled. He seems to be
happy enough."

"You'll take care of him, Doc?
Kind of keep an eye on him?"

Doc snorted and got up and
left.

Warren called after him, "If
you see Bat Ears down there, tell
him to come up."

Doc clumped down the stairs.

Warren sat and stared at the
blank wall opposite him.

First Mac and his crew had
forgotten how to run the engines.
That was the first sign of what
was happening — the first recog-
nizable sign — for it had been, go-
ing on long before Mac found
he'd forgotten all his engine lore.

The crew of investigators had
lost some of their skills and their
knowledge almost from the first.
How else could one account for
the terrible mess they'd made of
the junkyard business? Under
ordinary circumstances, they
would have wrung some substan-
tial information from the engine
parts and the neatly stacked sup-
plies. They had gotten informa-
tion of a sort, of course, but it
added up to nothing. Under or-
dinary circumstances, it should
have added up to an extraordin-
ary something.

He heard feet coming up the
stairs, but the tread was too
crisp for Bat Ears.

It was Spencer.

OPENCER flopped into one of
^ the chairs. He sat there open-
ing and closing his hands, looking
down at them w"ith helpless anger.

"Well?" asked Warren. "Any-
thing to report?"

"Briggs got into that first tow-
er," said Spencer. "Apparently
he came back with the rope and
found us gone, so he climbed up
and threw a hitch around the cap-
stone, then climbed down again
and pulled it off. The capstone is
lying on the ground, at the foot
of the tower, with the rope still
hitched around it."

Warren nodded. "He could
have done that. The capstone
wasn't too heavy. One man could
have pulled it off."

"There's something in that
tower."

"You took a look?"

"After what happened to
Briggs? Of course not. I posted
a guard to keep everyone away.
We can't go monkeying around
with the tower until we've
thought a few things through."

"What do you think is in
there?"

"I don't know," said Spencer.
"All I have is an idea. We know
what it can do. It can strip your
memory."

144

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"Maybe it's fright that did it,"
Warren said. "Something down
in the tower so horrible . . ."

Spencer shook his head. "There
is no evidence of fright in Briggs.
He's calm. Sits there happy as a
clam, playing with his fingers
and talking silly sentences — hap-
py sentences. The way a kid
would talk."

"Maybe what he's saying will
give us a hint. Keep someone lis-
tening all the time. Even if the
words don't mean much . . ."

"It wouldn't do any good. Not
only is his memory gone, but even
the memory of what took it
away."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Try to get into the tower,"
said Spencer. "Try to find out
what's in there. There must be a
way of getting at whatever is
there and coming out okay."

"Look," Warren stated! "we
have enough as it is."

"I have a hunch."

"This is the first time I've ever
heard you use that word. You
gents don't operate on hunches.
You operate on fact."

Spencer put up an outspread
hand and wiped it across his face.

"I don't know what's the mat-
ter with me, Warren. I know I've
never thought in hunches before.
Perhaps because now I can't help
myself, the hunch comes in and
fills the place of knowledge that
I've lost."

"You admit there's been know-
ledge lost?"

"Of course I do," said Spencer.
"You were right about the junk-
yard. We should have done a
better job."

"And now you have a hunch."

"TT'S crazy," said Spencer. "At
-*- least, it sounds crazy. That
memory, that lost knowledge and
lost skill went somewhere. Maybe
there's something in the tower
that took it away. I have the silly
feeling we might get it back again,
take it back from the thing that
has it."

He looked challengingly at
Warren. "You think I'm cracked."

Warren shook his head. "No,
not that. Just grasping at straws."

Spencer got up heavily. "I'll do
what I can. I'll talk with the
others. We'll try to think it out
before we try anything."

When he had gone, Warren
buzzed the engine room com-
municator.

Mac's voice came reedily out
of the box.

"Having any luck, Mac?"

"None at all," Mac told him.
"We sit and look at the engines.
We are going out of our heads
trying to remember."

"I guess that's all you can do,
Mac."

"We could mess around with
them, but I'm afraid if we do,
we'll get something out of kilter."

JUNKYARD

145

"Keep your hands off every-
thing," commanded Warren in
sudden alarm. "Don't touch a
single thing. God knows what
you might do."

"We're just sitting," Mac said,
"and looking at the engines and
trying to remember."

Crazy, thought Warren.

Of course it was crazy.

Down there were men trained to
operate spaceship engines, men
who had lived and slept with
engines for year on lonesome year.
And now they sat and looked at
engines and wondered how to
run them.

Warren got up from his desk
and went slowly down the stairs.

In the cook's quarters, he
found Bat Ears.

Bat Ears had fallen off a chair
and was fast asleep upon the
floor, breathing heavily. The room
reeked with liquor fumes. An al-
most empty bottle sat upon the
table.

Warren reached out a foot and
prodded Bat Ears gently. Bat
Ears moaned a little in his sleep.

Warren picked up the bottle
and held it to the light. There
was one good, long drink.

He tilted the bottle and took
the drink, then hurled the empty
bottle against the wall. The bro-
ken plastiglass sprayed in a
shower down on Bat Ears' head.

Bat Ears raised a hand and
brushed it off, as if brushing

away a fly. Then he slept on,
smiling, with his mind comfor-
tably drugged against memories
he no longer had.

XII

'T^HEY covered the tower with
-*- the capstone once again and
rigged a tripod and pulley above
it. Then they took the capstone
off and used the pulley to lower
an automatic camera into the pit
and they got their pictures.

There was something in the
tower, all right.

They spread the pictures out
on the table in the mess room
and tried to make out what they
had.

It was shaped like a watermel-
on or an egg stood on one end
with the lower end slightly mash-
ed so that it would stand upright.
It sprouted tiny hairs all over
and some of the hairs were blur-
red in the pictures, as if they
might have been vibrating. There
was tubing and what seemed to
be wiring, even if it didn't look
exactly the way you thought of
wiring, massed around the lower
end of the egg.

They made other tests, lower-
ing the instruments with the pul-
ley, and they determined that
the egg was alive and that it was
the equivalent of a warm-blooded
animal, although they were fair-
ly sure that its fluids would not

146

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

be identical with blood.

It was soft and unprotected by
any covering shell and it pulsed
and gave out some sort of vibra-
tions. They couldn't determine
what sort of vibrations. The little
hairs that covered it were con-
tinually in motion.

They put the capstone back in
place again, but left the tripod
and the pulley standing.

Howard, the biologist, said,
"It's alive and it's an organism
of some kind, but I'm not at all
convinced that it's pure animal.
Those wires and that piping lead
straight into it, as if, you'd al-
most swear, the piping and the
wires were a part of it. And look
at these - - what would you call
them? — these studs, almost like
connections for other wires."

"It's not inconceivable," said
Spencer, "that an animal and a
mechanism should be joined to-
gether. Take Man and his ma-
chines. Man and the machines
work together, but Man main-
tains his individual identity and
the machines maintain their own.
In a lot of cases it would make
more sense, economically, if not
socially, that Man and machine
should be one, that the two of
them be joined together, become,
in face, one organism."

Dyer said, "I think that may be
what we have here."

"Those other towers?" asked
Ellis.

"They could be connected,"
Spencer suggested, "associated in
some way. All eight of them
could be, as a matter of principle,
one complex organism."

"We don't know what's in those
other towers," said Ellis.

"We could find out," Howard
answered.

"No, we can't," objected Spen-
cer. "We don't dare. We've fooled
around with them more than was
safe. Mac and his crew went for
a walk and found the towers and
examined them, just casually,
you understand, and they came
back not knowing how to operate
the engines. We can't take the
chance of fooling around with
them a minute longer than is
necessary. Already we may have
lost more than we suspect."

"You mean," said Clyne,
"that the loss of memory we may
have experienced will show up
later? That we may not know
now we've lost it, but will find
later that we did?"

OPENCER nodded. "That's
^ what happened to Mac. He
or any member of his crew, would
have sworn, up to the minute
that they tried to start the en-
gines, that they could start them.
They took it for granted, just as
we take our knowledge for grant-
ed. Until we come to use the
specific knowledge we have lost,
we won't realize we've lost it."

JUNKYARD

147

"It scares you just to think
about it," Howard said.

Lang said, "It's some sort of
communications system."

"Naturally you'd think so.
You're a communications man."

"Those wires."

"And what about the pipes?"
asked Howard.

"I have a theory on that one,"
Spencer told them. "The pipes
supply the food."

"Attached to some food sup-
ply," said Clyne. "A tank of food
buried in the ground."

"More likely roots," Howard
put in. "To talk of tanks of food
would mean these are transplant-
ed things. They could just as
easily be native to this planet."

"They couldn't have built those
towers," said Ellis. "If they were
native, they'd had to build those
towers themselves. Something or
someone else built the towers,
like a farmer builds a barn to
protect his cattle. I'd vote for
tanks of food."

Warren spoke for the first
time. "What makes you think
it's a communications setup?"

Lang shrugged. "Nothing spe-
cific. Those wires, I guess, and
the studs. It looks like a com-
munications rig."

"Communications might fill
the bill," Spencer nodded. "But
a communications machine built
to take in information rather
than to pass information along or

disseminate it."

"What are you getting at?" de-
manded Lang. "How would that
be communication?"

"I mean," said Spencer, "that
something has been robbing us of
our memory. It stole our ability
to run the engines and it took
enough knowledge away from us
so we bungled the junkyard job."

"It couldn't be that," said
Dyer.

"Why couldn't it?" asked
Clyne.

"It's just too damn fantastic."

"TVO more fantastic," Spencer
*■ ' told him, "than a lot of
other things we've found. Say
that egg is a device for gathering
knowledge . . ."

"But there's no knowledge to
gather here," protested Dyer.
"Thousands of years ago, there
was knowledge to gather from
the rusted ship out there. And
then, just a while ago, there was
knowledge to gather from the
junkyard ship. And now there's
us. But the next shipload of
knowledge won't come along for
maybe uncounted thousands of
years. It's too long to wait, too
big a gamble. Three ships we
know of have come here; it
would be just as reasonable to
suppose that no ship would ever
come here. It doesn't make any
sense."

"Who said that the knowledge

148

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

had to be collected here? Even
back on Earth we forget, don't
we?"

"Good Lord!" gasped Clyne,
but Spencer rushed ahead.

"If you were some race setting
out fish traps for knowledge and
had plenty of time to gather it,
where would you put your traps?
On a planet that swarmed with
sentient beings, where the traps
might be found and destroyed or
their secrets snatched away? Or
would you put them on some un-
inhabited, out-of-the-way planet,
some second-rate world that
won't be worth a tinker's dam to
anyone for another billion years?"

Warren said, "I'd put them on
a planet just like this."

"Let me give you the picture,"
Spencer continued. "Some race
is bent on trapping knowledge
throughout the Galaxy. So they
hunt up the little, insignificant,
good-for-nothing planets where
they can hide their traps. That
way, with traps planted on stra-
tegically spaced planets, they
sweep all space and there's little
chance that their knowledge traps
ever will be found."

"You think that's what we've
found here?" asked Clyne.

"I'm tossing you the idea,"
said Spencer, "to see what you
think of it. Now let's hear your
comments."

"Well, the distance, for one
thing — "

"What we have here," said
Spencer, "is mechanical telepathy
hooked up with a recording de-
vice. We know that distance has
little to do with the speed of
thought waves."

"There's no other basis for this
belief beyond speculation?" asked
Warren.

"What else can there be? You
certainly can't expect proof. We
don't dare to get close enough to
find out what this egg is. And
maybe, even if we could, we
haven't got enough knowledge
left in us to make an intelligent
decision or a correct deduction."

"So we guess again," said War-
ren.

"Have you some better meth-
od?"

Warren shook his head. "No,
I don't think I have."

XIII

I~\YER put on a spacesuit, with
*-" a rope running from it to
the pulley in the tripod set above
the tower. He carried wires to
connect to the studs. The other
ends of the wires were connected
to a dozen different instruments
to see what might come over
them — if anything.

Dyer climbed the tower and
they lowered him down into the
inside of the tower. Almost im-
mediately, he quit talking to
them, so they pulled him out.

JUNKYARD

149

When they loosened the space-
suit helmet and hinged it back,
he gurgled and blew bubbles at
them.

Old Doc gently led him back
to sick bay.

Clyne and Pollard worked for
hours designing a lead helmet
with television installed instead
of vision plates. Howard, the bi-
ologist, climbed inside the space-
suit and was lowered into the
tower.

When they hauled him out a
minute later, he was crying — like
a child. Ellis hurried him after
Old Doc and Dyer, with Howard
clutching his hands and babbling
between sobs.

After ripping the television
unit out of the helmet, Pollard
was all set to go in the helmet
made of solid lead when Warren
put a stop to it.

"You keep this up much long-
er," he told them, "and we'll
have no one left."

"This one has a chance of
working," Clyne declared. -» "It
might have been the television
lead-ins that let them get at
Howard."

"It has a chance of not work-
ing, too."

"But we have to try."

"Not until I say so."

Pollard started to put the solid
helmet on his head.

"Don't put that thing on," said
Warren. "You're not going any-

where you'll be needing it."

"I'm going in the tower," Pol-
lard said flatly.

Warren took a step toward him
and without warning lashed out
with his fist. It caught Pollard on
the jaw and crumpled him.

Warren turned to face the rest
of them. "If there's anyone else
who thinks he wants to argue,
I'm ready to begin the discussion
— in the same way."

None of them wanted to argue.
He could see the tired disgust
for him written on their faces.

Spencer said, "You're upset,
Warren. You don't know what
you're doing."

"I know damned well what
I'm doing," Warren retorted. "I
know there must be a way to get
into that tower and get out again
with some o/ your memory left.
But the way you're going about
it isn't the right way."

"You know another?" asked
Ellis bitterly.

"No, I don't," said Warren.
"Not yet."

"What do you want us to do?"
demanded Ellis. "Sit around and
twiddle our thumbs?"

"I want you to behave like
grown men," said Warren, "not
like a bunch of crazy kids out to
rob an orchard."

He stood and looked at them
and none of them had a word to
say.

"I have three mewling babies

150

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

on my hands right now," he add-
ed. "I don't want any more."

He walked away, up the hill,
heading for the ship.

XIV

''■''HEIR memory had been
■*• stolen, probably by the egg
that squatted in the tower. And
although none of them had dared
to say the thought aloud, the
thing that all of them were think-
ing was that maybe there was a
way to steal that knowledge back,
to tap and drain all the rest of
the knowledge that was stored
within the egg.

Warren sat at his desk and
held his head in his hands, trying
to think.

Maybe he should have let
them go ahead with what they
had been doing. But if he had,
they'd have kept right on, using
variations of the same approach
— and when the approach had
failed twice, they should have
figured out that approach was
wrong and tried another.

Spencer had said that they'd
lost knowledge and not known
they had lost it, and that was the
insidious part of the whole situa-
tion. They still thought of them-
selves as men of science, and
they were, of course, but not as .
skilled, not as knowledgable as
they once had been.

That was the hell of it — they

still thought they were.

They despised him now and
that was all right with him. Any-
thing was all right with him if it
would help them discover a way
to escape.

Forgetfulness, he thought. All
through the Galaxy, there was
forgetfulness. There were expla-
nations for that forgetfulness,
very learned and astute theories
on why a being should forget
something it had learned. But
might not all these explanations
be wrong? Might it not be that
forgetfulness could be traced, not
to some kink within the brain,
not to some psychic cause, but to
thousands upon thousands of
memory traps planted through
the Galaxy, traps that tapped
and drained and nibbled away at
the mass memory of all the
sentient beings which lived among
the stars?

On Earth a man would forget
slowly over the span of many
years and that might be because
the memory traps that held Earth
in their orbit were very far away.
But here a man forgot complete-
ly and suddenly. Might that not
be because he was within the
very shadow of the memory
traps?

He tried to imagine Operation
Mind Trap and it was a shocking
concept too big for the brain to
grasp. Someone came to the
backwoods planets, the good-for-

JUN K YARD

151

nothing planets, the sure-to-be-
passed-by planets and set out
the memory traps.

They hooked them up in series
and built towers to protect them
from weather or from accident,
t and set them operating and con-
nected them to tanks of nutrients
buried deep within the soil. Then
they went away.

And years later — how many
years later, a thousand, ten thou-
sand? — they came back again
and emptied the traps of the
knowledge they had gathered. As
a trapper sets out traps to catch
animals for fur, or a fisherman
should set the pots for lobsters
or drag the seine for fish.

A harvest, Warren thought — a
continual, never-ending harvest
of the knowledge of the Galaxy.

¥F this were true, what kind of
•*■ race would it be that set the
traps? What kind of trapper
would be plodding the starways,
gathering his catch?

Warren's reason shrank away
from the kind of race that it
would be.

The creatures undoubtedly
came back again, after many
years, and emptied the traps of
the knowledge they had snared.
That must be what they'd do,
for why otherwise would they
bother to set out the traps? And
if they could empty the traps of
the knowledge they had caught,

that meant there was some way
to empty them. And if the trap-
pers themselves could drain off
the knowledge, so could another
race.

If you could only get inside the
tower and have a chance to figure
out the way, you could do the
job, for probably it was a simple
thing, once you had a chance to
see it. But you couldn't get inside.
If you did, you were robbed. of
all memory and came out a
squalling child. The moment you
got inside, the egg grabbed onto
your mind and wiped it clean
and you didn't even know why
you were there or how you'd got
there or where you were.

The trick was to get inside and
still keep your memory, to get
inside and still know what there
was to do.

Spencer and the others had
tried shielding the brain and
shielding didn't work. Maybe
there was a way to make it work,
but you'd have had to use trial
and error methods and that
meant too many men coming out
with their memories gone before
you had the answer. It meant
that maybe in just a little while
you'd have no men at all.

There must be another way.

When you couldn't shield a
thing, what did you do?

A communications problem,
Lang had said. Perhaps Lang was
right — the egg was a communica-

152

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

tions setup. And what did you
do to protect communications?
When you couldn't shield a
communication, what did you do
with it?

There was an answer to that
one, of course — you scrambled it.

But there was no solution
there, nor any hint of a solution.
He sat and listened and there was
no sound. No one had stopped
by to see him; no one had drop-
ped in to pass the time of day.

They're sore, he thought.
They're off sulking in a corner.
They're giving me the silent
treatment.

To hell with them, he said.

He sat alone and tried to think
and there were no thoughts, just
a mad merry-go-round of ques-
tions revolving in his skull.

Finally there were footsteps on
the stairs and from their unstead-
iness, he knew whose they were.

It was Bat Ears coming up to
comfort him and Bat Ears had a
skin full.

He waited, listening to the
stumbling feet tramping up the
stairs, and Bat Ears finally ap-
peared. He stood manfully in the
doorway, putting out both hands
and bracing them against the
jambs on either side of him to
keep the place from swaying.

T> AT EARS nerved himself and

*-* plunged across the space
from doorway to chair and grab-

bed the chair and hung onto it
and wrestled himself into it and
looked up at Warren with a
smirk of triumph.

"Made it," Bat Ears said.

"You're drunk," snapped War-
ren disgustedly.

"Sure, I'm drunk. It's lonesome
being drunk all by yourself.
Here . . ."

He found his pocket and haul-
ed the bottle out and set it ginger-
ly on the desk.

"There you are," he said. "Let's
you and me go and hang one on."

Warren stared at the bottle and
listened to the little imp of
thought that jigged within his
brain.

"No, it wouldn't work."

"Cut out the talking and start
working on that jug. When you
get through with that one, I got
another hid out."

"Bat Ears," said Warren.

"What do you want?" asked
Bat Ears. "I never saw a man
that wanted — "

"How much more have you
got?"

"How much more what, Ira?"

"Liquor. How much more do
you have stashed away?"

"Lots of it. I always bring
along a marg ... a marg . . ."

"A margin?"

"That's right," said Bat Ears.
"That is what I meant. I always
figure what I need and then bring
along a margin just in case we

JUNKYARD

153

get marooned or something."

Warren reached out and took
the bottle. He uncorked it and
threw the cork away..

"Bat Ears," he said, "go and
get another bottle."

Bat Ears blinked at him.
"Right away, Ira? You mean
right away?"

"Immediately," said Warren.
"And on your way, would you
stop and tell Spencer that I want
to see him soon as possible?"

Bat Ears wobbled to his feet.

He regarded Warren with
forthright admiration.

"What you planning on doing,
Ira?" he demanded.

"I'm going to get drunk," said
Warren. "I'm going to hang one
on that will make history in the
survey fleet."

XV

"V7"OU can't do it, man," pro-

■■■ tested Spencer. "You haven't
got a chance."

Warren put out a hand against
the tower and tried to hold him-
self a little steadier, for the whole
planet was gyrating at a fearful
pace.

"Bat Ears," Warren called out.

"Yes, Ira."

"Shoot the — hie — man who
tries to shtop me."

"I'll do that, Ira," Bat Ears
assured him.

"But you're going in there un-

protected," Spencer said anxious-
ly. "Without even a spacesuit."

"I'm trying out a new appro
. . . appro . . ."

"Approach?" supplied Bat
Ears.

"Thash it," said Warren. "I
thank you, Bat Ears. Thash ex-
actly what I'm doing."

Lang said, "It's got a chance.
We tried to shield ourselves and
it didn't work. He's trying a new
approach. He's scrambled up his
mind with liquor. I think he
might have a chance."

"The shape he's in," said Spen-
cer, "he'll never get the wires
connected."

Warren wobbled a little. "The
hell you shay."

He stood and blurredly watch-
ed them. Where there had been
three of each of them before,
there now, in certain cases, were
only two of them.

"Bat Ears."

"Yes, Ira."

"I need another drink. It's
wearing off a little."

Bat Ears took the bottle from
his pocket and handed it across.
It was not quite half full. Warren
tipped it up and drank, his
Adam's apple bobbing. He did
not quit drinking until the last of
it was gone. He let the bottle
drop and looked at them again.
This time there were three of each
of them and it was all right.

He turned to face the tower.

154

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"Now," he said, "if you gen'-
men will jush — "

Ellis and Clyne hauled on the
rope and Warren sailed into the
air.

"Hey, there!" he shouted.
"Wha' you trying to do?"

He had forgotten about the
pulley rigged on the tripod above
the tower.

He dangled in the air, kicking
and trying to get his balance,
with the blackness of the tower's
mouth looming under him and a
funny, shining glow at the bottom
of it.

Above him the pulley creaked
and he shot down and was inside
the tower.

He could see the thing at the
bottom now. He hiccoughed po-
litely and told it to move over,
he was coming down. It didn't
move an inch. Something tried to
take his head off and it didn't
come off.

The earphones said, "Warren,
you all right? You all right? Talk
to us."

"Sure," he said. "Sure, all right.
Wha' matter wish you?"

rpHEY let him down and he
-*- stood beside the funny thing
that pulsated in the pit. He felt
something digging at his brain
and laughed aloud, a gurgling,
drunken laugh.

"Get your handsh out my
hair," he said. "You tickle."

"Warren," said the earphones.
"The wires. The wires. You re-
member, we talked about the
wires."

"Sure," he said. "The wires."

There were little studs on the
pulsating thing and they'd be fine
things to attach a wire to.

Wires? What the hell were
wires?

"Hooked on your belt," said
the earphones. "The wires are
hooked on your belt."

His hand moved to his belt and
he found the wires. He fumbled
with them and they slipped out
of his fingers and he got down
and scrabbled around and grab-
bed hold of them again. They
were all tangled up and he could-
n't make head or tail of them and
what was he messing around with
wires for, anyhow?

What he wanted was another
drink — another little drink.

He sang: "I'm a ramblin' wreck
from Georgia Tech and a hell of
an engineer/"

He said to the egg: "Friend,
I'd be mosh pleashed if you'd
join me in a drink."

The earphones said, "Your
friend can't drink until you get
those wires hooked up. He can't
hear without the wires hooked up.
He can't tell what you're saying
until you get those wires hooked
up.

"You understand, Warren?
Hook up the wires. He can't hear

JUNKYARD

155

till you do."

"Now, thash too bad," said
Warren. "Thash an awful thing."

He did the best he could to get
the wires hooked up and he told
his new friend just to be patient
and hold still, he was doing the
best he could. He yelled for Bat
Ears to hurry with the bottle and
he sang a ditty which was quite
obscene. And finally he got the
wires hooked up, but the man in
the earphones said that wasn't
right, to try it once again. He
changed the wires around some
more and they still weren't right,
and so he changed them around
again, until the man in the ear-
phones said, "That's fine! We're

getting something now!"

And then someone hauled him
out of there before he even had
a drink with his pal.

XVI

¥¥E stumbled up the stairs and
■*-■*- negotiated his way around
the desk and plopped into the
chair. Someone had fastened a
steel bowl securely over the top
half of his head and two men,
or possibly three, were banging
it with hammer, and his mouth
had a wool blanket wadded up in
it, and he could have sworn that
at any moment he'd drop dead
of thirst.

He heard footsteps on the stairs
and hoped that it was Bat Ears,
for Bat Ears would know what to
do.

But it was Spencer.

"How're you feeling?" Spencer
asked.

"Awful," Warren groaned.

"You turned the trick!"

"That tower business?"

"You hooked up the wires,"
said Spencer, "and the stuff is
rolling out. Lang has a recorder
hooked up and we're taking turns
listening in and the stuff we're
getting is enough to set your
teeth on edge."

"Stuff?"

"Certainly. The knowledge that
mind trap has been collecting.
It'll take us years to sort out all
the knowledge and try to corre-
late it. Some of it is just in
snatches and some of it is frag-
mentary, but we're getting lots
of it in hunks."

"Some of our own stuff being
fed back to us?"

"A little. But mostly alien."

"Anything on the engines?"

Spencer hesitated. "No, not on
our engines. That is — "

"Well?"

"We got the dope on the junk-
yard engine. Pollard's already at
work. Mac and the boys are help-
ing him get it assembled."

"It'll work?"

"Better than what we have.
We'll have to modify our tubes

JUNKYARD

157

and make some other changes."

"And you're going to — "

Spencer nodded. "We're rip-
ping out our engines."

Warren couldn't help it. He
couldn't have helped it if he'd
been paid a .million dollars. He
put his arms down on the desk
and hid his face in them and
shouted raucously with incoherent
laughter.

After a time he looked up again
and mopped at laughter-watered
eye*

"I fail to see — " Spencer began
stiffly.

"Another junkyard," Warren
said. "Oh, God, another junk-
yard!"

"It's not so funny, Warren. It's
brain-shaking — a mass of knowl-
edge such as no one ever dreamed
of. Knowledge that had been ac-
cumulating for years, maybe a
thousand years. Ever since that
other race came and emptied the
trap and then went away again."

"T OOK," said Warren, "couldn't
-^ we wait until we came across
the knowledge of our engines?
Surely it will come out soon.
It went in, was fed in, what-
ever you want to call it, later
than any of the rest of this stuff
you are getting. If we'd just wait,
we'd have the knowledge that we
lost. We wouldn't have to go to
all the work of ripping out the
engines and replacing them."

OPENCER shook his head.
^ "Lang figured it out. There
seems to be no order or sequence
in the way we get the informa-
tion. The chances are that we •
might have to wait for a long,
long time. We have no way of
knowing how long the informa-
tion will keep pouring out. Lang
thinks for maybe years. But
there's something else. We've got
to get away as soon as possible."

"What's the matter with you,
Spencer?"

"I don't know."

"You're afraid of something.
Something's got you scared."

Spencer bent over and grasped
the desk edge with his hands,
hanging on.

"Warren, it's not only knowl-
edge in that thing. We're mon-
itoring it and we know. There's
also—"

"I'll take a guess," said War-
ren. "There's personality."

He saw the stricken look on
Spencer's face.

"Quit monitoring it," ordered
Warren sharply. "Turn the whole
thing off. Let's get out of here."

"We can't. Don't you under-
stand? We can't! There are cer-
tain points. We are — "

"Yes, I know," said Warren.
"You are men of science. Also
downright fools."

"But there are things coming
out of that tower that — '

"Shut it off!"

158

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

"No," said Spencer obstinately.
"I can't. I won't."

"I warn you," Warren said
grimly, "if any of you turn alien,
I'll shoot you without hesitation."

"Don't be a fool." Spencer
turned sharply about and went
out the door.

Warren sat, sober now, listen-
ing to Spencer's feet go down the
steps.

It was all very clear to Warren
now.

Now he knew why there had
been evidence of haste in that
other ship's departure, why sup-
plies had been left behind and
tools still lying where they had
been dropped as the crew had
fled.

After a while Bat Ears came
up the stairs, lugging a huge pot
of coffee and a couple of cups.

He set the cups down on the
desk and filled them, then banged
down the pot.

"Ira," he said, "it was a black
day when you gave up your
drinking."

"How is that?" asked Warren.

"Because there ain't no one,
nowhere, who can hang one on
like you."

rTVHEY sat silently, gulping the
■*- hot, black coffee.

Then Bat Ears said, "I still
don't like it."

"Neither do I," admitted War-
ren.

"The cruise is only half over,"
said Bat Ears.

"The cruise is completely
over," Warren told him bluntly.
"When we lift out of here, we're
heading straight for Earth."

They drank more coffee.

Warren asked: "How many on
our side, Bat Ears?"

"There's you and me," said Bat
Ears, "and Mac and the four en-
gineers. That's seven."

"Eight," corrected Warren.
"Don't forget Doc. He hasn't been
doing any monitoring."

"Doc don't count for nothing
one way or the other."

"In a pinch, he still can handle
a gun."

After Bat Ears had gone, War-
ren sat and listened to the sound
of Mac's crew ripping out the
engines and he thought of the
long way home. Then he got up
and strapped on a gun and went
out to see how things were shap-
ing up.

— CLIFFORD D. SIMAK

JUNKYARD

159

FORECAST

*

Next month, you're due for a relentlessly suspenseful novella, TANGLE
HOLD by F. L. Wallace, a breathless story of Venus and the oddest sort of
engineer you've ever encountered. It's his skill that gets him into trouble to
begin with, but that isn't what makes him unwittingly the greatest force for
good on that cloudy planet— which might have been all right, except that
what was good for Venus was pure murder for him!

J. T. M'lntosh's novelet, FIRST LADY, offers an entirely different type of
problem: The task of Terran Control is to explore, subdue and integrate
raw new worlds into the galactic economy, which naturally means nasty jobs
for its agents. The nastiest job, though, is not what you might expect— it's
taking a dazed young girl out into space to rule over an all-male planet!

There's an equally disquieting situation in the second novelet in the
issue, COLONY by Philip K. Dick. It's bad enough to have an alien enemy,
of course, but worse still when you can't be sure it is an enemy. But what
happens when you can't even find it in the first place?

Short stories, features . . . and don't forget that Willy Ley answers all
science questions either by mail or in FOR YOUR INFORMATION. Whafs on
your mind? Don't keep it to yourself; let Mr. Ley explain it to you. But please
type or print so your letter will be legible, hold down the number of questions
to no more than two or three, and sign your name and address in case the
answer must be mailed.

160

GALAXY SCIENCE FICTION

fS

What Strange Powers

Did The Ancients Possess?

CVERY important discovery relating
*-' to mind power, sound thinking and
cause and effect, as applied to self-
advancement, was known centuries ago,
before the masses could read and write.

Much has been written about the wise
men of old. A popular fallacy has it that
their secrets of personal power and sue
cessful living were lost to the world.
Knowledge of nature's laws, accumulat-
ed through the ages, is never lost. At
times the great truths possessed by the
sages were hidden from unscrupulous
men in high places, but never destroyed.

Why Were Their Secrets
Closely Guarded?

Only recently, as time is measured; not
more than twenty generations ago. less
than 1/1 00th of 1% of the earth's
people were thought capable of receiv-
ing basic knowledge about the laws of
life, for it is an elementary truism that
knowledge is power and that power
cannot be entrusted to the ignorant
and the unworthy.

Wisdom is not readily attainable by the
general public; nor recognized when
right within reach. The average person
absorbs a multitude of details about
things, but goes through life without
ever knowing where and how to acquire
mastery of the fundamentals of the inner
mind — that mysterious silent something
which "whispers" to you from within.

Fundamental Laws of Nature

Your habits, accomplishments and weak-
nesses are the effects of causes. Your
thoughts and actions are governed by
fundamental laws. Example: The law

of compensation is as fundamental as
the laws of breathing, eating and sleep-
ing. All fixed laws of nature are as
fascinating to study as they are vital to
understand for success in life.

You can learn to find and follow every
basic law of life. You can begin at any
time to discover a whole new world of
interesting truths. You can start at once
to awaken your inner powers of self-
understanding and self-advancement.
You can learn from one of the world's
oldest institutions, first known in Amer-
ica in 1694. Enjoying the high regard
of hundreds of leaders', thinkers and
teachers, the order is known as the Rosi-
crucian Brotherhood. Its complete name
is the "Ancient and Mystical Order
Rosae Cruris," abbreviated by the ini-
tials "AMORC." The teachings of the
Order are not sold, for it is not a com-
mercial organization, nor is it a religious
sect. It is a non-profit fraternity, a
brotherhood in the true sense.

Not For General Distribution

Sincere men and women, in search of
the truth — those who wish to fit in with
the ways of the world — are invited to
write for complimentary copy of the
sealed booklet, "The Mastery of Life."
It tells how to contact the librarian of
the archives of AMORC for this rare
knowledge. This booklet is not intended
for general distribution; nor is it sent
without request. It is therefore suggested
that you write for your copy to: Scribe

T.E.H.

OR* ROSICRUCIANS

San Jose

t AMORC}

California

■ I — ■ »~

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A STARTLING NEW MAGAZINE
Designed, edited and produced by the Galaxy staff.
BEYOND will feature pure fantasy exclusively.

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This offer is limited and expires on date of publication. May 1, 1953,
so rush the coupon below.

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Reserve my color print plus permanized first issue of your Magazine and send the
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